Happy Father’s Day

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Fathers are versatile. At least mine is.

He’s made me happy by saving me from wild animals like mutant killer spiders that are about to repel down from the ceiling above my bed and attack me.

He’s made me embarrassed by calling my date by the wrong name. (It also made me wonder about his cognitive function because the name he used wasn’t even the name of any current or former boyfriend any of my three sisters or I had had. Or even of anyone we knew, for that matter.)

He’s given great advice on mechanical things like cars. When I was away at college my dad talked me through changing a radiator hose over the phone. So what if I’d purchased the wrong one? My roommate was pre-med and a few minutes with her scalpel was all it took to cut that baby down to size.

Dad’s advice on boys is — 43 years and counting — still unchartered territory. I’m convinced no matter what my problem, his answer would likely have included the reminder that he and my mom had “dated” for two years via letters between the US and Bolivia where he served in the Peace Corp. (I’m sure Rick will also be a big proponent of a snail mail relationship when Lia hits the dating scene.)

As adults, many of us women probably don’t consider ourselves likely to run to our fathers for every little problem. By now we’ve learned to be self-sufficient, can hire someone to take care of the issue, or simply add the task to the Honey Do list for our respective Honeys.

But not that long ago, within one hour of Rick leaving town for a few days, one of the toilets got backed up. I’m not an idiot. I do know where we keep the plunger. I also understand its intricate mechanical workings. I was even willing to use one. (But only because the other option was waiting three days for Rick to return home.)

I learned something new that day: Our plunger is sexist. It refused to work for me. Feeling frustrated, I called my parents’ house. Mom answered and provided just the right amount of commiseration and pity party I needed. Then she put Dad on the phone because no matter how old you are, when the toilet’s broken your father will not hesitate to say, “I’ll be right over.”

Calls like that made him feel needed. And he got to play with his tools, which were a lot more fun than plungers. And once he was done — and had thoroughly washed his hands — he got a grateful hug from his daughter.

It’s nice that fathers get at least one day a year when we kids thank them for all they’ve done for us. And for all the crap they’ve put up with over the years.

Happy Father’s Day to all the great dads out there. Mine especially.

A Sandwich Named Kevin

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I just saw a meme on Facebook that read, “Strange new trend at the office. People putting names on food in the company fridge. Today I ate a tuna sandwich named Kevin.”

This reminded me of my previous job. There must have been a strict budget for the coffee supplies because we typically ran out of milk near the end of the month.

I needed a couple cups of tea to get me going in the morning, so I got in the habit of bringing a reusable container of milk as my personal stash. I always brought a little extra and didn’t mind if people “borrowed” a few drops, but I lost my patience one day when they left the empty container in the refrigerator.

“I’m going to have to start labeling my milk,” I told my co-worker.

She shook her head. “Putting your name on it won’t stop them.”

I smiled. “Who said anything about putting my name on it? Trust me. Tomorrow I’ll have milk all day long.”

True to my word, the next day no one else touched a single drop of my milk. I’m sure there were a few people who didn’t believe my sign, but no one was willing to take the chance and drink from a container labeled, “breast milk.”

Short & Sweet Sunday

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I know the “Employees Must Wash Hands Before Returning To Work” sign in restaurant bathrooms is a legal requirement, but as a patron I’d feel better if it read “Employees Always Wash Hands Before Returning To Work.”

The legally worded version implies employees are like five-year-olds who need to be reminded to scrub their hands. I’m not saying I’m naïve enough to believe all employees always wash their hands. But I like to pretend that they do when I’m eating the food they’ve prepared for me.

Is it too much to ask for the wording on the sign to play into my fantasy?

Suspicious Behavior

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When my kids were about two and five, my sister and I took them to the playground at the local elementary school. We pulled in behind a white pick-up truck with spools of blue and yellow wires in the bed.

The man in the passenger seat opened his door and looked at me before ducking back into the truck. A moment later they backed out of their parking spot and drove off.

There are picnic tables there, so I thought maybe they had planned to eat lunch before getting back to work and didn’t want to deal with the commotion two young children were sure to provide. I didn’t think twice about the incident until the truck returned a few minutes later.

When the driver put the truck in reverse and backed out of the parking lot, I couldn’t help but wonder if his odd behavior was to prevent me from getting a look at his license plate. The normally fun playground suddenly turned ominous. One of my kids falling off the slide no longer seemed like the biggest threat.

Feeling slightly foolish, I called 911 and reported the suspicious vehicle as we loaded the kids back into the car. By then the truck had returned a third time. “Honestly, if I could think of a single logical explanation for his actions, I wouldn’t be bothering you,” I told the dispatcher.

He made me feel better by saying I made the right decision to call. He couldn’t think of an explanation either. But since I was able to catch the license number the last time the truck pulled in, the officers had a good chance of finding them.

A short time later the nice policeman called me at home. “We found him when he returned to his house, which is near the school. It turns out there was a simple explanation for his actions.”

Pulling into different parking spots. Opening the door but not getting out. Leaving and returning. Driving backwards around the building. None of it made any sense. I still couldn’t imagine a plausible reason for his behavior.

“He was teaching his nephew how to drive,” the policeman said.

Except for that.

Why am I sharing this story now? Alec just got his learner’s permit over the weekend and we took him to that very same school for his first driving lesson. Luckily Karma’s statute of limitations must have expired because no one called the cops on us.

Short & Sweet Sunday

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It’s always interesting watching baseball at large gatherings in my family because living in Connecticut, we have a mixture of die-hard Red Sox fans and some lost souls who root for a team a little to our south — We still love them though, despite their imperfections. ;)

Yesterday’s game was 1-0 in favor of the Red Sox over the Yankees when Mom and Dad left the party. Dad must’ve had a premonition that he wouldn’t want to hang around to see the Sox hit a grand slam a few minutes later to make it 5-0. (Sorry, Yanks, that’s what you get for intentionally walking Big Papi.)

But the following innings became painful to watch even for the remaining Boston lovers. Eventually the Yankees conceded the game by leaving their pitcher in as the Red Sox continued to tack on runs.

Being the mother of a former Little League pitcher, I couldn’t help but feel bad for the poor guy left to closeout the game for the Yankees. Sometimes having a Mercy Rule really is a relief.

Don’t get me wrong. If there’s going to be a slaughter I’d rather it be my team wielding the bats. But I’d much prefer a nail-biter that keeps the suspense high until the very last out.

Sometimes Words Surprise Me

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Sometimes when I’m writing I come up with words that surprise me. And I’m not referring to those that end up on paper. This spontaneous creativity is most likely to happen when Rick is not home to run defense between me and those who make noise. (I’ll leave it up to your imagination which side he’s protecting.)

The other night the kids were goofing around. I was not eager for a trip to the emergency room. And if I had to go to the emergency room, I was certainly in no mood to explain to a medical professional why my twelve- and sixteen-year-old children were taking turns head-butting a cardboard box.

And here are the motherly words of wisdom that sprang from my mouth: “If you get hurt, I’m staying in the waiting room and letting you explain to the doctor how it happened.”

This threat didn’t deter them from taking turns acting like karate experts.

I wasn’t worried about them hurting themselves hitting the box, which by this point had been beaten to a softened pulp. I was more concerned about what would happen if they missed the box and smashed skulls like two butting rams. Because that’s what tends to happen when two kids pretend they are black belts when they are more accurately classified as “albino belts.”

Short & Sweet Sunday

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Exhausted, I barely opened my eyes as I put toothpaste on my toothbrush. Luckily, the twice-daily routine is so familiar most of us can do it with our eyes closed. But I woke up the instant the bristles hit my teeth, because nothing felt the same. Oops. I had grabbed Rick’s toothbrush by accident.

I debated not telling him, because even though I’ve known him for almost thirty years, I wasn’t sure how he’d react. I knew it would make him feel weird, but we’ve had two kids together so it wasn’t like a stranger used it. In the end, I decided he’d be even less happy if he discovered the wet toothbrush on his own.

I was right. Based on the scrunched-up face he made, he wasn’t happy. But he didn’t go so far as to throw the “contaminated” toothbrush away, so I guess that says something.

Help me out here in the comments. I can’t be the only idiot to do this.

What Are You Coming Back As?

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When I walked in the door the other night Lia asked, “Mom, did you know that humans come back in our next lives as whatever creature we were the meanest to in this life?”

I did not know this. On the heels of a long, aggravating day at work, my immediate thought was that I needed to start being meaner to our cats, because I’d love to come back as a spoiled housecat who napped all day. But I knew if this karma thing was for real, it meant I would come back as an abused or feral cat instead of a pampered kitty.

Having ruled out cats as my next life form, another thought hit me. I moaned. “Oh, no. Am I coming back as a spider?”

Lia shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. You never kill any of the spiders yourself.”

Good point. I’ve yet to meet a spider I couldn’t outrun. Which meant that Rick, my spider assassin, was definitely coming back as an arachnid.

“If your dad comes back as a spider then we’re not getting married again in our next lifetime,” I said.

Lia decided I’m probably coming back as an ant, which I kill in abundance in my kitchen. I guess I can live with that. I’ll enjoy a few free picnics before some giant crushes me. Assuming Rick doesn’t eat me first.

Short & Sweet Sunday

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I’ve never understood my son’s nickname for our cat. Her name is Cela (with a soft c) which is Alec spelled backwards. But for some reason he calls her Joseph. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a cat named Joseph, especially not a female feline.

The other day I was writing on the sofa when Cela joined me to snuggle on the blanket. She purred and rubbed herself against my arm to get my attention.

“Well, hello there, Joseph,” I said in a rare instance of using Alec’s pet name for her.

Lia laughed when she heard me. “Mom. That’s not her name.”

We’ve had the cat for almost nine years. I did know her real name. “I realize that, Lia. But why does Alec call her Joseph anyway?”

Lia laughed again. “He doesn’t. He calls her Doeseph. As in she’s as cute as a baby doe.”

NINE YEARS, folks. For nine years, I’ve thought my son called this cat Joseph. I think maybe I need to stop teasing Rick about his hearing.

Locked Out of an iPod

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Footsteps pounded down the hall. “MOM! Alec locked me out of my iPod.” Lia held the disabled device out for my examination.

My immediate reaction was to doubt that Alec had intentionally locked her out by trying to guess her password. My kids knew the rule: If they made the other’s device time out, they would lose their own device for just as long. Plus, at fifteen Alec was beyond those types of childish acts of torment. He had moved on to much more effective strategies, like standing in the hallway with one little toe over the imaginary line into Lia’s room.

My suspicion that Alec had nothing to do with her problem was confirmed when I saw the message from Apple indicated that she had to wait 22,784,042 minutes before trying to log in again. I didn’t even try to mentally calculate how many days that was. “Lia. I don’t think Alec had anything to do with this. That’s a really long time.”

“I know it was Alec because I didn’t do anything,” Lia insisted. “I haven’t even used it for so long it was completely dead.”

I suspected the dead battery had something to do with her problem. To help convince Lia of her brother’s innocence, I pulled out a calculator. “Honey, Alec would have had to do something really bad in order to get you locked out for…34 YEARS.”

We both laughed. It was hard not to. In 34 years iPods would probably be as obscure as Walkmans are today.

I suggested she turn off the iPod and see if the message went away. It didn’t, and Apple was so mad at this egregious attempt to circumvent its controls that it tacked on another two years to her waiting time.

This earned me another outraged screech. “MOM!”

I shrugged and couldn’t help giggling. “Lia, if you really have to wait 34 years, what’s two more?”

She stomped out of the room in frustration. But she returned a few minutes later with a happy smile on her face. “I plugged it into the computer and now I can get in. I think I’ll let it charge for a while.”

That’s probably a good plan.