Is That The Shirt You're Wearing Page 5

  It was a horrifying realization.

  “Should I bother keeping it? Do you think it’s ever coming back?” I asked, standing there looking like a clown, a clown that wears black crepe suits.

  “Oh, honey, that suit is never coming back,” he declared. “You’re never gonna make that work.” Suddenly he was Tim Gunn, apparently.

  So, it’s back to the closet.

  I wonder if that green wrap-dress would still fit?

  I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that wrap-dresses are back in. Right?

  6 weeks, 5 days

  My mom keeps getting weaker. Also, she can’t stand up for very long or she gets dizzy. Some time ago a neurologist told her that the vein in her neck was clogged and there was no way to fix it. We don’t know if that’s getting worse or if there’s something new going on, and she still hasn’t gotten in to see that new doctor.

  My sister, who lives closer, has been bringing my mom dinners, but she works full time and also has three kids.

  “Why don’t I call that companion service and get someone over to help you a couple days a week, like we did for Dad?” I suggest to my mom.

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. I am sure I’ll be feeling stronger soon. Besides, I don’t want to commit to having someone here all the time. I don’t want to go to all that bother.”

  “Why don’t I call and ask? Maybe it can be temporary?” “Well, I do hate to keep troubling your sister. I guess it

  wouldn’t hurt to put in a call.”

  Hmm. That was way too easy.

  She must be feeling worse than I thought.

  Only two days later I’m getting ready to take my mom to her doctor’s appointment, and find out I’ve been given a reprieve. Turns out my mom let my sister hire her a companion or “helper,” The helper has been there only one day and already my mom loves her. “Ester went to Ralphs for me and she picked up my prescriptions and then she made this wonderful enchilada casserole. Of course I had to tell her not to put any onions in it because I’m allergic. But she said it was just fine to make it without onions. It was no problem at all. Anyway, it was quite delicious.”

  “I guess I’ll get to meet her when I come to take you to the doctor,” I said.

  “Oh, don’t bother coming out all this way. Ester can just take me.”

  Wow. Apparently Ester is the perfect daughter my mother never had.

  Truthfully I’m glad I don’t have to go to the doctor. Whenever I go with her, the doctor talks to me like I’m the parent and my mom is the child. He completely ignores her, and because of her hearing loss I have to keep repeating what he says back to her. I guess it’s inevitable, the switching of the roles, but I don’t like it. I just don’t.

  If you only saw my mom’s face and nothing else, you’d think she was about 65 instead of 83. Save for a few smile lines, she has virtually no wrinkles. She really should do humanity a favor and donate her body to skin care companies. We could all benefit from what they find out.

  But recently she had to start using a walker. That walker makes her suddenly look a lot older. It also makes going anywhere with her take a lot loooonnnnggggeeerrr.

  Sometimes I think that if my mom would simply move around more, force herself to take walks and go places, she might have more energy. I think the more she sits, the more she wants to sit.

  I tried to encourage her to be more active by telling her about Barry’s mom. After Barry’s dad died from Alzheimer’s his mom embarked on a new career as a movie extra. She’s had incredible success, a fact that she loves to flaunt in Barry’s face because of his long-abandoned acting career. “Did I tell you I worked with Name Drop?” she’ll boast. “Name Drop even got me a chair and another Name Drop brought me a plate from the craft service table.” It drives Barry crazy.

  I told my mom how Barry’s mom has a new lease on life and more energy than ever now. This story went over like a lead balloon.

  You Will Buy My Cookies

  It was the time of year that instilled dread and fear in the hearts of parents across the country. College application deadline? No. Pre-holiday frenzy? No. Something much, much more worse, and more stressful than I could have ever imagined

  – the annual Girl Scout Cookie sales drive.

  My three daughters had recently joined the Girl Scouts so I was well aware that selling the famous cookies loomed in our future. In fact, I even looked forward to it. After all, what could be more American? More wholesome? More gosh, darn fun?

  But my excitement quickly waned when I found out just how many boxes the girls were expected to sell – not five, not ten

  – no, each troop leader expected my girls to sell 50 to 75 boxes! To make matters worse, rumors floated around about previous sales drives and how one overzealous scout sold upwards of 700 boxes!

  These had to be fish stories. Children are prone to exaggeration, right? Turns out they weren’t. Evidently, the parents of these super bionic salesgirls took the order forms to their offices and gently suggested that their subordinates make purchases.

  “Uh, sure Mr. Jenkins, put me down for 12 of your daughter’s $4.00 cookie boxes. I’ll just cancel my cable service so I can afford them. I really shouldn’t be watching that much TV anyway.”

  That wasn’t going to happen in our house. My girls

  needed to sell cookies the old-fashioned way, door-to-door, facing success and rejection head-on as originally intended.

  We headed out on day one, eager to make a sale and finally meet those neighbors. After all, what better way to get to know them than to ask them for money? Off we went, plotting a course down our San Francisco-like hilly street, pen and lengthy blank order form in hand.

  It’s funny; I never noticed all the security gates and fencing encircling most of our neighbors’ properties before this sales venture. These Buckingham Palace-like homes were indeed intimidating. We rationalized that after spending so much money on elaborate fencing, they probably could not afford cookies so we skipped these particular houses. Besides, their intercom technology confused us.

  Not easily discouraged, I suggested we try the next street over, one that is even more steep than our own. But, soon the girls started to get winded and whiny and I could tell they were losing their will to live, let alone sell a box of cookies. We passed three more gated properties and struck out at two empty houses before reaching the highest point of the street and amazingly, we finally heard footsteps coming to answer the door.

  A friendly Dad-like figure greeted us. Yay! Our first sale!

  Or so we thought. “Oh, Girl Scout cookies? I think my wife may have bought some already. Why don’t you come back in an hour?” he said, casually, as if he had never noticed that he lived on a street that rivals the height of Mt. McKinley.

  “Uh sure. We’ll do that,” I said through gritted teeth as we walked away. But then, once the door was shut, I lost it.

  “Why don’t you come back in an hour?” I said mockingly over and over again. “He’s got a million dollar house, a Hummer in the driveway, and he can’t fork out four measly bucks for a box of cookies? Why that…” My kids had to grab a hold of me to calm me down. I think one of them may have slapped me.

  “Let it go, Mom. It’s okay. There will be other sales. Don’t worry,” my kids said, sympathetically.

  But I knew better. This old-fashioned door-to-door crap wasn’t going to cut it. If I had any hope of meeting those quotas I was going to have to give in and take point on this project.

  Unfortunately, neither my husband nor I have, um,

  regular jobs or co-workers to pester so I had to throw myself on the mercy of my friends and relatives. I sent out this email:

  “Dear Friends and Family:

  As you may know, Samantha, Chloe and Peyton have joined the Girl Scouts and Brownies. The annual Girl Scout cookie sale has begun and we need to satisfy a sales quota for each child. To that end, I ask that each of you buy 56 boxes. I’ve attached an order form for your convenience
. And, please include two forms of identification on your personal check, especially you Uncle Walter.”

  Strangely, the orders have been slow coming in. But I believe this whole adventure has been a good learning experience for the kids - something about business successes and failures and the importance of living on flat streets. I’m not sure.

  But I do know one thing -- I won’t be buying all the unsold cookies myself. I’ve heard of lots of parents doing exactly that. No way.

  That’s what grandparents are for.

  6 weeks, 2 days remaining

  It’s rare that I’m eager to kiss another woman, but I could easily plant a big slobbery wet one on the face of my daughters’ Girl Scout Camp director. My three girls are spending the whole week, five wonderful days, at a nature park under the shady oaks where they will play games, make crafts, hike, and even prepare their own dinners! And each day they’re gone from 2:00PM till 7:30PM! Five and a half hours - hooray!

  They came home the first night covered in dirt, excited and full of stories. “We had taco salad for dinner, but mine fell on the ground so I only ate cookies!”

  “Today we went in the One-Eyed Monster Cave and we were attacked by a bunch of bats!” And my favorite, “Wild Bill, the homeless guy, had to be escorted from camp by three policemen!”

  Ah, beautiful childhood memories in the making.

  The best part of this Girl Scout camp is that my eldest daughter is now a camp counselor. She and her two friends have twelve rambunctious six-year-olds in their care. She came home with the most shocking stories of all, “There are so many kids and when you tell them what to do, they don’t even listen! And they’re constantly asking us to do things for them.”

  “Really? I can’t believe it. Tell me more.” It’s so rewarding.

  My good friend is the director of this camp and quite a few of my friends volunteer there. But my good friend has never asked me to help out. That is probably why she is my good friend. I think she knows that I’m not too keen on other people’s children, with all the disgusting stuff that comes out of their various orifices. Frankly, I view children much like I do body odor: I can tolerate my own, but others people’s often repulse me.

  Sample Day in a Mom’s Summer “Vacation”

  7AM - Wake and have breakfast with bleary-eyed Kid #1 who has not seen this hour, or any time close to it, since school ended two weeks earlier.

  8AM - Drop Kid #1 at Girl Scout-sponsored nature park clean up. Speed off in car leaving behind giant cloud of dust and pretend that I don’t hear other mom’s last-minute request for “extra hands.”

  8:30AM - Return home and get breakfast for Kid #2 and Kid #3, dog and cat.

  9:20AM - Drop DVD rentals at video store including dreadful one kids insisted upon starring a fangless, yet still sullen, Robert Pattinson. Regret wasting $5.00 yet delight in “I told you so” afterglow.

  9:30AM – Pack Kid #2 and Kid #3 in car again and pick up remarkably unsoiled Kid #1. Return home and make mid- morning snack for Kids #1, #2 and #3.

  10:30AM – Go to grocery store for more supplies. 12:00N - Make lunch for Kids #1, #2 and #3.

  1:00PM - Take Kid #1 to fashion design sketching class. Fantasize about her upcoming career as famous fashion designer, including guest judge appearance on Project Runway. Acknowledge that Kid #1 will likely live at home for a very long time.

  1:30PM - Take Kid #3 to swim date at friend’s house. During drive get instructed by Kid #3 that I shouldn’t get out of the car when we get there, for fear I will engage in a long conversation with her friend’s mom, thus ruining the whole experience.

  2:00PM - Return home and learn that Kid #2 hijacked my cell phone to text an invitation to friend for swim date at our house. 2:30PM - Welcome Kid #2A and immediately prepare snacks for Kid #2 and Kid #2A.

  3:00PM - Abandon plans to do laundry or anything really because must now supervise swim date.

  4:00PM - Pick up Kid #1 from sketch class. Make futile attempts to glean information about content of said class.

  5:30PM - Feed dinner to Kid #2 and Kid #2A. Pour self a heart- healthy glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. Realize may not drink heart-healthy Cabernet Sauvignon as still need to take Kid #2 and #2A to #2A’s recently separated father’s new apartment to “check it out” and watch a movie.

  6:00PM - Take Kid #1 to coed birthday party for now 14-year- old friend. (Read laughably tiny font at bottom of invitation indicating that there will be parental supervision.)

  6:15PM - Take Kid #2 and #2A to the dad’s pad. Take note of ne’er-do-well teens hanging out on balconies of neighboring apartments. Silently wish that 11-year-old Kid #2 and her friend, Kid #2A, did not already look like leggy teens.

  6:30PM - Drop Kid #3’s overnight bag at her friend’s house in order to accommodate impromptu sleepover invitation. Sadly decline offer of libation, due to aforementioned driving duties. 7:00PM – Return to find husband home from work. Detect goofy grin on husband’s face. Listen as husband points out that the kids are all gone, heh, heh, and you know what that could mean. Offer up, “Umm, we have control of the remote?”

  8:00PM - Phone rings. Kid #3 wants to cancel sleepover date. Pick up Kid #3 and reassure her on drive home that her friend’s house does not have ghosts. The white blur in the hallway likely the pasty daddy legs of her friend’s father.

  9:30PM - Pick up Kid #2 from the bachelor pad apartment. Inquire as to the rating of already-watched movie. Convince self that she meant to say she saw the Chipmunks’ The Squeakquel and not The Saw sequel.

  10:00PM - Pick up Kid #1 from the birthday party. Conduct

  inconspicuous sniffing in entryway to smell for booze and cigarettes. Thankfully detect none. Note that birthday girl’s parents look a good ten years older than at party’s start, four hours earlier.

  10:30PM - Return home and cajole kids into their beds. Finally reach for glass of Cabernet, but decide it is too late to drink alcohol unless desire that awful morning headache. Opt for butterscotch brownie and calcium-rich milk instead.

  11:00PM - Go online and research sleep-away camp availability for remainder of summer. Send email inquiring if there is room for one more. Also ask if they take adults.

  6 weeks

  This morning, my husband is mad at me. It seems he had a dream last night that we went to a hotel for his birthday, but then I left him alone so I could go off to be with my boyfriend. “On my birthday,” he reiterated. “How could you do such a thing?”

  I laughed and laughed when he told me this. My laughing only made things worse. “The fact that you’re not reassuring me that you don’t have a secret boyfriend is proof that you must be having an affair,” he insisted.

  That logic seemed, dare I say, a tad irrational. So, naturally I threw more grease on the fire, “What did my boyfriend look like? Was he young? Did he have wavy Bradley Cooper hair?” I figured if I’m going to get blamed for an imaginary affair, I should get some enjoyment out of it.

  For the rest of the day he kept muttering under his breath, “I can’t believe you,” “Have you no shame?” and sometimes just a simple, “Hussy.”

  The kids were oblivious to his taunts, too anesthetized by the combination of the oppressive summer heat and a weekend- long “Wizards of Waverly Place” marathon. I joined them on the couch, hoping to avoid his evil eye. I could feel him simmering though and I may have even heard him utter the word, “Tart,” one time as he walked by. Ah well, I believe the secret to a long marriage often lies in the ability to sometimes ignore the periodic insanity of one’s spouse.

  Before long I was sucked into the Wizards’ complicated plotline alongside my slack-jawed children. You know, maybe it’s the Stockholm Syndrome talking here, but some of these kids’ shows are pretty funny, and that Selena Gomez? I think she’s going places.

  My Dreamy Boyfriend

  As my friend recently related her never-ending nocturnal tale, I wished she abided by my personal rule to never bore other people with my dreams. Beca
use much like lengthy childbirth stories, dreams are something people love to tell, yet other people never ever-ever-ever want to hear. They may nod politely and pretend to listen to your never-ending saga, but inside they’re screaming, begging for the torture to stop. And really, with the exception of Stephanie Meyer’s dream-inspired Twilight series, good rarely comes from a dream’s retelling.

  Another personal rule that I try to live by is to treat my children like my children and not my friends. But, perhaps because I didn’t have quite enough coffee the other morning, somehow I managed to break both of these rules in one fell swoop.

  As my kids and I enjoyed our breakfast sausage I began describing a dream I had the night before. In it, I was a teenager and dating that blond boy from that old Disney Channel show, the one that starred Demi Lovato before she had to go into rehab, and way before her singing career took off. That was about as far as I got with my story before my kids interrupted with a collective, “Yuk, Mom, yuk!”

  Why was it yuk, I wondered?

  “He’s a teenager. I can’t believe you. Yuk,” the middle one said.

  I tried to explain that it really wasn’t that yuk. “You’re not

  getting it. I was a teenager in the dream, too. I wasn’t your mom yet.”

  “I don’t care. You’re a creeper. That’s disgusting,” my

  15-year-old chided.

  I was now on par with a child molester.

  “I really don’t think you’re understanding. I was young once too, you know. I have memories of myself that way and that’s who I was in the dream. So, this blond boy, he and I were at the same high school and we were getting ready to go to this formal dance . . .”