Kids Say the Darndest Things

When kids are young, they love to share things they’ve learned with their parents. I remember those days well. My daughters, E and S, always seemed eager to tell me about school. Maybe it was something that happened on the playground, or a lesson about their favorite animal, or maybe learning about the moon or the planets. Everything was new to them, and they were pure and innocent and curious.

Now, my two girls are teenagers, and while they probably tell me way more than their friends tell their parents, it is just not the same. Maybe it’s because, at 16 and 14, they are already a bit jaded and burned out from too much homework and being able to tell when assignments are a waste of time. Maybe it’s because they are not learning anything new that’s worth mentioning. Truth be told, there is less excitement over, say, logarithms then there would be over manatees. Even the stories of their classmates are more shocking than amusing. Let me illustrate that point for a second.

S (about two weeks ago): Hey Mama, you know that boy who is always looking at my butt? Well, he got suspended for a week for making Lean in the bathroom. I won’t have to deal with him breathing on my neck in math! Praise the Lord!

Lean, for those of you who are neither the parents of teenagers nor in the hip-hop community, is a recreational beverage involving codeine cough syrup, Sprite or Mountain Dew, and a Jolly Rancher candy. Also, this boy likes to make my daughter uncomfortable regularly. It’s not just her and not just that boy; it’s kind of how a lot of middle schoolers interact with each other. Perhaps you remember?

Here’s another one.

E: Hey Mom, guess what happened at school today. This girl got into a big argument with this asshole boy that no one likes and today someone spray painted a large blue dick on the side of her car and it was probably him cause he’s done that kind of thing before. And her car’s white! Ha! That shit isn’t coming off without a fight.

These are the teenage equivalent of what happened at school today. It’s enough to make you not want to ask anymore. The stories tend to involve girl fights, drug arrests, or naked snapchats from the 8^th grade mattress back that the whole school sees. We have moved past the conversations about showing kindness and compassion or not joining in on the gossip because what if it were them. According to both of them, all the stories are true, all the time. And sometimes they are documented, so even if they do sound fucking ridiculous, they can still be true.  They reassure me they don’t talk like this at school, but save it up for me when they get home.

I don’t really feel reassured.

For the record, my kids go to pretty good public schools. Mostly affluent area of town, lots of overachievers and competition for good colleges and honors and AP classes. Also lots of entitled brat narcissists with Jeep Wranglers and a pocketful of Mom and Dad’s prescriptions. Seriously, what is the definition of a good school today?

Every once in a while, however, they will come home with something new they learned, and it’s almost magical, that despite the fact that they, nay, all teenagers, know everything, they can still learn something new.

E, who is almost finished with her sophomore year, came home all excited a few weeks ago. Normally she comes home and scowls, eats anything she can find in the pantry, and then lumbers upstairs to sleep it off. Sometimes, she comes home and cries. Excited is not usually what the coming home looks like.

E: Hey Mom, do you know how sloths mate?

Me: Um, no. Should I?
E: Yes, you should. I’m going to tell you all about it. It’s really cool. The female sloth gets all worked up, but she is too lazy to leave her tree, right?
Me: Right.
E: So to let the male sloths know she is ripe and ready, she starts to scream, like this.

E emits this high-pitched screech. It was quite unpleasant, like a girl who sees a bug in her bathroom or when two girls run into each other at Target. Here is an actual sloth making the same sound:

Me:  I get it, you can stop now. So then what happens?

E: Well, she just hangs from the tree, screaming like that. And then a male sloth might hear her and think, oh snap, it’s time to smash…
Me: Where did you learn this, exactly?
E: Just wait, so he gets out of his tree and follows the scream sound until he finds her.
Me: And then what happens?
E: They smash.
Me: When did smash become a thing?
E: You’re old. It was always a thing.
Me: So what do they do?
E: They mate. I told you.
Me: Well, what’s so special about sloths mating? I thought that was the point of the story.
E: It was mostly the scream.
Me: Ah. Thanks for sharing that. Great story.
E: Why don’t we have anything good to eat?

If you have little kids, talk to them every day. Act interested in all the stories. Comment and really participate. Because one day in the not -too-distant future, those stories will either stop altogether or morph into something you aren’t sure you want to hear.

 

Going Above and Beyond

If you are one of the few, the proud, who read my blog regularly, you may already know I am not a fan of flying. Unfortunately, I seem to have passed on this fear to my teenage daughter, E.  She has been scared of flying since early childhood and has not really gotten over it, even after our trip to Europe last summer. Like me, however, she can tolerate a few hours with the help of a Valium or Xanax, because at the end of the day, if you want to go anywhere, sometimes you have to nut up and strap in.

Spring break was a few weeks ago, and E really wanted to visit her best friend, AJ, who had plans to spend the week at her father’s house in southern Florida.   Last summer, E flew down to spend the week with AJ, and it went well, so well that she was ready to fly again. I bought her a plane ticket and lamented the fact that this was the first time she would be going on a spring break trip without us. I wasn’t too worried about any sort of “girls gone wild” scenario because AJ’s dad doesn’t put up with too much. All I had to do was get her on the plane, and I knew things would be fine.

The Friday of her 5:30pm flight on Allegiant Airlines, E spent most of the day packing, repacking, showering, and putting on make-up. She also allowed plenty of time to get extremely nervous and snap at everyone. About an hour after lunch, she received a text saying the flight was delayed and would not leave until 6pm. It wasn’t a major problem, more of a minor inconvenience, especially since my husband and I were supposed to close on our mortgage refinance at the same time.  We figured she had to be there early anyway, so it wouldn’t present a conflict.

Around 3pm, E got another text from the airline. The flight was now delayed until 7:30pm. Her anxiety could handle a small delay, but the second one pushed her into the world of panic. She was convinced she wasn’t going to be able to leave, and Allegiant doesn’t fly every day, which meant the next flight wouldn’t be until Monday, two days before AJ was going to leave her father’s house. Therefore, spring break, and life, was ruined. Tears followed, lots of them.

I tried to get her to calm down. We did the best we could with the chilling and relaxing and reapplying of makeup until about 5:30. She never got another text from the airline, so I drove her to the airport, armed with a Valium to take around the time she made it to the gate so it could kick in around boarding time. I had plenty of time to get back home for the refinance closing.

Before she got out of the car, she received a text from the airline. The flight was delayed by ten more minutes. I told her everything would be fine, to take a deep breath, give me a hug, and get out of the car.

I hated to leave her there alone, but she is sixteen, and a fairly experienced traveler.  She knew what to do. She could handle it. She had her ID and her boarding pass and her carry-on luggage with the proper dimensions and weight. She also had a special gift bag I hid in her suitcase, filled with Easter candy and travel sized beauty products for a fun surprise on Easter morning.

Unfortunately, the TSA ruined the fun surprise. After her bag was scanned and she walked through the screening thing at the security check, they pulled her to the side and asked her what was in her bag that was obstructing the scanner.  She said she had some feminine hygiene products in there.  The TSA agent doubted the pads were a red flag, if you will, and made her unzip the suitcase. He saw the Easter bag, peeked inside, and asked her if she knew what was in it. She admitted she did not. He said thanks to that bag he had to pat her down, which is the most action she has ever gotten.

After the TSA was satisfied she wasn’t going to bring down the airplane with a Cadbury Crème egg, she made her way to the gate, and about ten minutes before boarding, she took her Valium.  As she sat there in a bit of a haze, shit got real.

The gate agent began boarding the flight by zones. E was in the last zone, so she sat and watched and waited. About 2/3 of the people boarded the plane.  Suddenly, the pilot came storming through the gate door, turned around and yelled for everyone to get off the plane, and then screamed that the flight was cancelled because the crew flew too many hours. He stomped off towards the exit before anyone had a chance to ask what was going on.  The gate agent picked up her PA microphone and announced that the flight had been cancelled and that no compensation would be given for stranded passengers, who should head to the ticket counter for more details. She thanked everyone for choosing Allegiant and put down the microphone.

Everyone was not thankful they chose Allegiant. People started yelling and screaming at each other. One man pushed his wife into the gate agent. She shoved back. An angry man punched a hole in the wall. People threw water bottles.  It was E’s first riot.

By this point, E was well under the influence and did not think to take out her cell phone to record it. She tried to gather up her purse and luggage, but she tripped and her bag dumped everywhere. She got down on her hands and knees to collect her things around the same time most of the passengers angrily headed to the ticket counter. Her things, and indeed her person, were trampled in the process. She shoved her stuff back in her purse and got on the escalator. When she tried to put her suitcase down on the step in front of her, she lost control of it, and it tumbled down to the first story. When she got to her, she grabbed it and started to cry.

One man noticed her in tears and asked if she was okay. She snapped, “Do I look okay to you?” and sat down to cry more and text me.

I was signing my name a million times on a bunch of meaningless papers when she texted, but luckily we quickly finished up and got to the airport not long after the riot. My husband stayed in the car at the curb (we live in a small city, where such things are still possible), and I found E standing in line with the rest of her flight mates. One ticket agent was at the counter, yelling at a passenger who was yelling at her. We stood there a while trying to figure out what was going on, and then the agent barked at the line to come back at 9:30 in the morning for boarding passes because the flight was rescheduled for the 11:30 the next day.

She left the next day, after waiting in the ticket line for over an hour, because even though the Allegiant representative said to be there at 9:30, the morning’s ticket agent didn’t start to check in the passengers until after 10:30. She had another Valium, and it wore off by the time she was on the beach in Boca.

I don’t like to fly because I don’t like the way it feels. I don’t like the noises, and I don’t like being trapped with a bunch of coughing strangers and crying, seat-kicking children. What I really don’t like, however, is how unpleasant air travel has become. Gone are the days when flying, nay, travel was an event. People don’t dress up anymore. There is no silverware or little plates or even food. No one speaks with a mid-Atlantic accent.

Instead, it is like a Greyhound in the sky. If you are lucky, no one is strung out on bath salts next to you. Hopefully the toilets still flush. If you are lucky, you might arrive the same day, but one never knows, does one? It all sucks, from the first vague text to the nonexistent customer service to the belligerence of the other passengers. And no amount of Valium can fix any of it.

25% Off

All I wanted was a new dishwasher. Instead, I am hiding in my office while my husband uses his professional grade Dremel tool to grind out a quarter inch chunk of wood from the support beam holding up my granite countertop. Do you know how loud a Dremel tool is? No wonder the man is deaf.

After a few months of my dishwasher not working as it should, I insisted we get a new one. I had done all the things I could think of to improve its function, including cleaning around the disgusting soap scum slime-covered seal and running the rinse cycle with an assload of white vinegar. Nothing worked, including the washer itself.  It had a good run, having been with us for 8 years and who knows how long before we bought the house. Plus, it was black, and I don’t want to sound racist, but I wanted it to match my newer stainless steel kitchen appliances, although why I don’t know because all of them have a crime scene’s worth of fingerprints and smudges, none of which were noticeable on my vintage 90’s dishwasher.

We needed to pick out a replacement dishwasher. There is no such thing as an impulse purchase in my house because my spouse is one of those researcher kinds of guys.  Instead, there are months of review browsing and comparison shopping and debating and weighing of pros and cons. I generally don’t get too involved in his process. I don’t have strong feelings one way or the other. I just don’t want to hand wash my dishes. I want a machine that does it for me with minimal noise and no weird chalky film on everything. He looks at the bigger picture, the energy efficiency and internal capacity and a bunch of other crap I would never think to investigate because I just don’t want to hand wash my dishes.

After careful review, he selected a Bosch unit, last year’s model that was on sale at a national home improvement retailer. He ordered it online and made arrangements for installation after it arrived at the local store. Yay, right?

Last week, the dude came to the house with the new washer. He must have been an independent contractor that works with the store because he showed up in his old minivan with a new washer in the back, which looked a little shady. He came in and was polite and all that stuff, asking for an old towel and for one of us to turn off the power at the breaker box before he removed the old, malfunctioning washer. A trail of water, nay, tears, was left across my hardwoods as he rolled it out to his creepy van where I am sure others have also been left to die.  When he came back in with the new one, he got down to the installation part of the work order. I had to leave as the car pool line was calling my name, but my husband stayed home to provide any assistance and also to surf on his laptop.

When I returned home with a child, the van was gone and my husband was waiting for me at the door.

“Guess what?” he said.

I wanted to be positive, but I know tone, and I was positive that was not a good guess what.

“What?” I said, bracing myself.

“He installed the wrong fucking dishwasher! It’s a Whirlpool, not a Bosch. It’s not even a good one. I looked online and it’s way cheaper than the one we ordered. Plus, it’s a piece of crap. It’s all plastic inside. Can you believe that shit?”

In fact, I could not believe that shit. That shit was downright unbelievable. I am still convinced it was a bait and switch.

My husband got on the phone and had an argument with the customer service lady who insisted that the only way to resolve the problem was to have a work order to remove the wrong washer, then reorder the correct one and wait for it to arrive for installation. He insisted that we would not be without a dishwasher while she corrected the problem, and then he insisted that he needed a supervisor because he wasn’t wasting his time on someone with no authority.

After that, he spoke with the manager at the local store who verified they did have the washer and would have it installed when it could be arranged, in about a day or two. Only that turned into another long wait because the store never arranged it with the local contractor with the serial killer van. It felt less and less like a mistake.

At the end of the week, my husband followed up again with the manager, who did an excellent imitation of a person shocked at his employee’s piss poor customer service skills. And today, the installer was back around lunchtime with the Bosch.

He unhooked the loaner dishwasher and dragged its cheap ass out to the van, then brought in the correct machine and commenced installation.  He was down on the floor lying on an old towel and sweating profusely and looking around and rearranging hoses and finally got up and went to make a phone call outside. When he came back inside, he announced that the machine did not fit. It wasn’t his fault or the washer’s fault or even my husband’s fault. It was because of the metal anchor strip attached to the top of the unit. It was exactly one quarter inch too tall to squeeze into the allotted space.

Apparently, our countertop doesn’t have the normal kind of support; it has a thick wooden beam that takes up a quarter of inch too much motherfucking space. The technician said he wasn’t authorized to continue because he was concerned if he forced it, it would crack the granite countertop. Our options were to contact a carpenter or…

My husband took a look at the wood and said,” Couldn’t you just chisel out a little sliver and it would fit?”

The technician said, “In theory, yes. But I can’t do it.”

They devised a plan. My husband would cut out the quarter inch from the beam, and the technician would come back tomorrow and try again, if he could fit it into his schedule.

So here I am, hiding in my office because the noise from the grinding thing is horrible, like a wounded cat ready to fight to the death. I’m not the only one who thinks so. My cat, Yoko, also thought it sounded vaguely threatening. She just attacked my husband, claws out, grabbing him on the back of the leg and scratching and biting the fuck out of him. Unfortunately, I didn’t witness the assault, but I did hear him scream, which freaked me out something fierce. It’s always scary when a man who works with his hands for a living yells his head off while working with power tools. Yoko is with me, trying to calm down. I am nursing a tension headache brought on by jaw clenching and Dremel vibrations.

And in the kitchen sink are all the dinner dishes, waiting to be hand washed, because all I wanted was a new dishwasher.

The Girl Scouts Always Ring Twice

Here’s a cautionary tale for your evening.

This afternoon, while I shopped for overpriced organic food at Earthfare, my older daughter, E, called me on the phone. This was indicative of something being catastrophically wrong. Teenagers do not call unless they have broken hearts or fender benders. I knew she was at home, still half-dressed (or half-undressed, depending on your worldview), so it couldn’t be the car accident. Chances were pretty good it wasn’t the heart ache either because she has yet to let any boy get close enough to have an emotion. I answered the phone, and she was squawking about girls and cookies and something about the stairs and no pants. I couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying, but either way, it didn’t sound good. I interrupted her to make sure whatever it was could wait until I checked out and got home. She hung up on me, which meant it could.

When I pulled my car in the garage, my younger daughter, S, met me at the door.  She looked excited.

S: Girl Scout cookies are here!

Me: Those little girls delivered them today? Cool! Who paid for them?

About a month ago, a couple of neighborhood girls actually went door to door selling Girl Scout cookies instead of having their parents just take the order form to the office. They were so cute and sincere and naïve, so I purchased two boxes, Peanut Butter Patties, which were better when they were called Tag-Alongs, and Thin Mints, because the law requires a minimum of one box per order. Today appeared to be delivery day.

S: I did. You owe me 8 bucks.
Me: I don’t have any money right now. Thank you though.
S:  That’s cool. I’ll get it from Dad. Did E tell you what happened?
Me: Well, she called me, but I couldn’t understand what she said. It sounded like she was crying.
S: She may have been. They rang the doorbell, and I answered it and took the cookies in the kitchen. I had one in my mouth when I went back to the door with my money.
Me: Which flavor?
S: Thin Mint.
Me: Sweet.
S: I gave them the money and closed the door. E heard me pay for the cookies, so she ran downstairs…
Me: Did she fall? No wonder she called me crying. E! E! Are you okay?

I screamed this last part at the top of my lungs so she could hear me from the garage doorway.

S: No, worse.

E, screaming: What do you want?
Me: How worse?
S: You know how she never got dressed today?
Me: Yeah.
S: So she’s still in a t-shirt and underwear. And when she ran downstairs to get at the cookies, the Girl Scouts rang the doorbell again. With their parents. I must have given them a dollar too much, and they came back to return it and say thank you. When I opened the door, E was in the middle of the stairs in her hot pink panties.

I’m sorry but I kind of felt that detail was necessary, not so much that you needed the visual, but more so that you could understand what that unsuspecting family saw through the open door. That almost adult child of mine buys her own underwear now because she doesn’t want me to have any input on her choices. I do not have veto power when it isn’t my money. I am not saying she needs to stick to the six pack of Hanes in original granny pant white, but damn, girl, no one even sees those strips of flimsy cloth. When my husband folds the laundry, he doesn’t know if he should have an erection or a heart attack.

Me: So what did E do? I’m guessing she didn’t fall down the stairs, as I had originally assumed.
S: She stood there like a possum, paralyzed with fear. It was awesome.

I started dinner, and E sauntered into the kitchen, still wearing a t-shirt and underwear. She went to the pantry and grabbed a Girl Scout cookie out of the open package.

Me: Have you learned nothing today?

E, with a cookie in her mouth: mumble mumble

And…scene. The takeaway here is that you should always have pants at the ready during Girl Scout cookie season. You never know when innocent children will arrive at your doorstep with cookies and possibly a couple of parents. Don’t scar them for life.

Fly on the Wall

I am sitting in a Starbucks right now near Bob Jones University. If you aren’t familiar with BJU, which is one of the best abbreviations ever, you are really missing out. It’s a religious institution that indoctrinates from preschool all the way to masters degrees. I hesitate to call it an educational institution because it doesn’t really follow the mainstream idea of book learning, like science and history, but they do have an impressive collection of artwork stolen by Nazis and a pretty good music program.

This particular Starbucks is a goldmine for eavesdroppers. Being so close to BJU means a lot of students or professors or religious nuts hang out here or use it as a meeting place. The rest of the patrons at this time of day are hipsters who are too lazy to drive downtown. I am almost out of place as a patron.  I came here this late afternoon to write, and I am, but not what I had intended, because  I am too distracted by a conversation taking place at a table diagonal from me to concentrate on anything else.

Almost every table is occupied with chit chat, and there’s an odd mix of music is blaring overhead. It’s a challenge to hear all of their exchange, but believe me, I am trying. If I could pull up a chair and transcribe the whole thing, I would.

When I first settled at my table, a white man in his mid-fifties sat at that table near mine. He looked like a typical BJU kind of guy with his slightly graying Ken doll haircut and khaki Members Only jacket. He didn’t order a drink; instead, he kept looking around, standing up and peering out the side door, and sitting back down. Finally, he received a phone call from someone who was having trouble locating the Starbucks, so he was trying to give directions. The person was at the strip mall in the same parking lot, but still didn’t know how to locate the Starbucks.

That was odd enough on its own; who doesn’t know a Starbucks when they see one? The answer is someone who isn’t American.

The gentleman who came in to meet the white guy is African. They shook hands and sat across from each other. The white guy tried to explain what Starbucks is, how they make all kinds of coffee, how expensive the drinks are, and how he doesn’t like it here. The African didn’t understand coffee and decided not to try any.

White guy explained his credentials. From what I heard, he has three master’s degrees in religion, one in divinity, one in theology, and one in whatever is left. He is apparently a “professor” at BJU and has worked in the past as a missionary.  The African said that he too has a degree, although he now works at the airport. It became very apparent that they had a bit of a language barrier to work through together. White guy addressed it in the usual American way, by talking louder.

They began a conversation that sounded a bit like an interview, with White guy doing all the asking. White guy asked about his family. He wanted to know if he was married, then if it was an arranged marriage (yes). He asked about his father and how many wives his father had (2). He also wanted to know how many children his father had (16), and which one he was in birth order (4). The African said he had a twin that still lived in Liberia, which White guy called Libya for the rest of the conversation. White guy wanted to know if anyone in the family had AIDS, which I thought was a rather personal question. It didn’t matter to the African, because he didn’t know what White guy was talking about. White guy spelled it out loudly over and over, A-I-D-S, but alas, spelling English acronyms didn’t clarify the question.

The conversation then turned to what kind of work he did in Libya, which was really Liberia.  There was some discussion about harvesting, and White guy couldn’t figure out what was harvested. It was wool. He sheared sheep, but he doesn’t know the English word “shear.” White guy talked louder, trying to explain what the English words are for what the African man was describing. I still couldn’t really tell why they were meeting.

Then White guy got down to business. He wanted to know what religion the African was. When he said he was Muslim, White guy asked all about how he prayed. Did he go to the mosque every day? (Yes) Did he pray five times a day? (Yes)  How long does it take?  (30 minutes)  White guy took a turn describing how he prays. He gets up every morning at 6:30 and reads the bible and prays until 8. At night, before going to sleep, he and his wife read the bible together and pray together. Every Sunday, they go to church and pray and listen to the preacher and sing their praise to God.

The African wanted to know what a bible was. That was one of my favorite parts. White guy explained it was like the Christian Quran. It went like this: he pointed to the African and said “Quran” and then pointed to himself and said “Bible” over and over, at least ten times.  The African asked if it was the same as being a Mormon, because he knows a guy who is a Mormon and it sounds like the same kind of thing. White guy got louder and turned a little red in the face. He stressed that “we think that is a false religion” repeatedly, and then tried to explain the kinds of real religions that exist. It went in this order: Christian, Roman Catholicism, Muslims, Hindus, and then Mormons, which is a false religion. He followed that with another interesting statement, “the largest religion in the world is Christianity.”

I couldn’t see the African’s face, but I wonder if he rolled his eyes. I also noticed White guy never mentioned Judaism as a real religion.

A Starbucks employee called out that they messed up two drinks if anyone wanted them for free. The counter was rushed by cheapskates.

White guy then needed to know what kind of Muslim he was, Shiite or Sunni. The African had never heard of either, which meant White guy had to work hard to explain the difference, which basically was that they had different names, and he spelled them repeatedly for clarification. Through piecing together the types of Muslims in other countries, White guy could discern that the African is Sunni. It was not clear why he needed this information.

Unfortunately, at this point, White guy said his time was up and he had to leave. They shook hands and bid each other safe travels. The meeting abruptly ended.

At no point could I figure out why they met, what the nature of this conversation was, or why they picked Starbucks as a meeting spot if neither drank coffee. As much as I wanted to understand, I’ll never know. I didn’t hear them make arrangements to meet again, so I couldn’t exactly put it in my calendar and plan to coincidentally seat myself at a table right before they arrived. So many unanswered questions.

I’m not passing judgment on White guy or the African or even the Starbucks employee who messed up someone’s order. I merely observed and recorded to the best of my ability. Did I mention I heard two Earth, Wind, and Fire songs playing in the hour they talked with each other? Or that I ordered a chai latte when I meant to get an Oprah cinnamon chai latte because it has less calories but I hate to order it because I refuse to say Oprah’s name every time I want a goddamn cinnamon chai latte? Or that it is very clear that the line between beard and clean shaven in this Starbucks corresponds with the association to BJU?

There are worse ways to kill a couple of hours.

A Close Call

I have always had a fear of dropping things in the toilet. It happens to everyone at some point in their lives, and it serves as a reminder from the universe to put the lid down when not in use. The lid thing doesn’t apply to public toilets, however, so we must each be hypervigilant about items in hand or in pocket before the big flush spirals down.

I’m still haunted by the time when I fell in the toilet. I was about five, and a petite little girl. It was night, and I had to get up to pee. I remember I wore a long cotton nightgown which I was unable to pull up all the way to avoid getting it wet. I tried to balance on the edge of the seat, but I fell back and into the toilet bowl. My nightgown was sopping, and I needed help to dislodge myself because I am pretty sure my feet didn’t reach the floor. I wonder if I began wetting the bed after that.

When I was in college, my roommate accidentally dropped her new ATM card in a flushing toilet. We used to open our mail in the bathroom because we didn’t have cell phones then. If my memory serves me correctly, she had to contact the bank to have the card replaced, and when she received it in the mail, she opened it on the toilet and accidentally dropped her new ATM card in the flushing toilet.

I flushed a tube of toothpaste one time. I also dropped in a hairbrush, but it didn’t go down, and I had to fish it out and throw it away.

At our old house, my husband lost his wedding ring to a toilet when it flew off his finger mid-flush and swished down the bowl. Interestingly enough, he actually got his ring back a few years later. We had sold the house and moved to our current home, but the people who bought it were having some trouble with the upstairs bathroom. A plumber came and snaked their toilet, and voila! He found my husband’s ring. They delivered to his office. I have a feeling he tossed it in a drawer, where it sits as useless as it did in the toilet pipe.

I am going somewhere with this.

Recently, my daughter, S, and I went to the movies. We saw the Oscar-nominated Brooklyn, a beautiful and rather long story of immigrants from the 1950’s, give or take a decade. It was a lovely movie, and I didn’t want to miss any of it by taking a trip to the restroom. When the movie ended, I race walked to the closest bathroom before my bladder ruptured.

I sat down on the toilet and looked over my phone, as is the custom. When I finished, I stood to pull up and zip my jeans. I stuck my phone in my pocket, and as I leaned over to flush the toilet, my phone fell out of my pocket. Panic ensued.

As the water churned around the bowl, I stood frozen and watched. I didn’t see my phone under the water. Maybe it didn’t go in the toilet. Maybe I got lucky.

I glanced down at the floor in my stall. No phone. Where the fuck did it go? I lifted one foot, then the other. Nothing. I checked my pockets again. Empty.

I’m not proud of what happened next.

I squatted down to see if my phone went behind the toilet, which it hadn’t. So I peeked at the floor of the stall next to me. Bingo.

Only it wasn’t on the floor between the two stalls. It was in the center of the floor of the next stall, just out of my reach. I got down low. On my knees low, on a public bathroom floor. I darted my hand under the dividing wall to grab my phone. I didn’t think about anything else, only that I found my phone, and I was reclaiming it. I stuck my hand under the wall, between the feet of the lady next to me, and retrieved my phone.

She lifted one orthopedic shoe out of my way. I mumbled my apology to her as I tried not to peer at her from my spot on the floor. I stood up quickly, pocketed my phone, and exited the stall. I washed my hands repeatedly while wondering if it would have been better to have flushed the phone.

I have debated getting a personalized phone case to warn potential thieves that my phone spent some time hanging out on a public restroom floor, not unlike the pizza delivery guy’s caveat, “driver has less than $20 in vehicle.” It could say something like, “This phone wallowed in movie theater bathroom filth. Who knows what contaminants are still detectable on this device. If you choose to pinch it and put it near your mouth and ear, have at it, fool. I know where it has been. Oh, the horror,” only I don’t think all that would fit.

Too bad I don’t have an iPhone Plus. That bad boy couldn’t fit through that hole in the toilet, which isn’t a hole exactly. It’s called a trap, and I know this because I researched toilet parts for accuracy. You’re welcome.

I did learn something from this experience. From now on, I’ll put my phone in my bra before I stand and flush.

Better Luck Next Time

My husband came back from Phoenix almost a week ago. He, along with half our state, went to witness what they hoped would be college football history, as Clemson, the number one team, battled Alabama, number two, at the National Championship game. Clemson has not won a national championship since 1981, so this was kind of a big deal in the college football world, especially here in South Carolina. This will be the extent of football references I plan on making for at least nine months, so if you are into that, enjoy it while you can.

I wanted to go to Phoenix too. We lived there the first year we were married, but it’s been almost twenty years since I’ve been there. January is the perfect time for a visit; it cures the seasonal affective disorder and it isn’t yet brain-roasting temperatures. Unfortunately, it was too expensive for all of us to go, and since I didn’t give a shit about the football game, it was decided I should stay home and take care of the teenagers and the cats and any other related caretaking items.

Just to be clear, it wasn’t my decision.

Thursday night before he left, my husband had to assess a small problem. It seemed my older daughter’s car was acting funny, not the ha-ha way, but the weird way. The interior lights flashed on and off, the radio stopped working, the nifty screen with all the information went black, and the battery warning light illumined. She suspected something was wrong with the battery or she had a poltergeist, but either way, she was scared to drive it.

When my husband came home from work, he went outside to check out the car. He drove around for about five minutes and declared the car, “Fine.”

E, my daughter, disagreed with him, as she normally does, and refused to drive it. So another decision was made. My husband would drive the iffy car to the airport in the morning for his 6:30 flight, and E would drive his car to school.

I didn’t have a problem with this decision.

The next morning, my husband awoke at four am to get ready for his trip. I slept through most of it, which for me is unusual. I am not the deepest of sleepers for the wee hours of the morning. I didn’t hear him leave, but at 5:36 am, I did hear my phone ring.

Him: My car fucking broke down.

Me: Where are you?
Him: Across the street from the fucking airport. Do you, can you come get me and take me to the airport?
Me: Did you call the airline to let them know you are running late?
Him: I can’t get the phone number.

Ok, let’s pause here for a sec.  That thing in his hand, that he used to call me, that is a computer too. It can find the airline phone number. It can also find Uber.

Me: Let me put in my contacts and I’ll be there soon.

Him: Hurry. I don’t want to miss my flight.

Ten minutes later, I’m in the car, pajamas, the first pair of shoes I found that did not involve tying, and my night guard still clenched tightly between my teeth. It was raining, and dark, and prime animals that dart in front of cars hour. I took the narrow, winding back roads from our house to where I assumed his car was. The rain picked up. I approached the QT gas station at the corner. In the middle of the road, at the red light, facing the entrance to the airport, was my daughter’s car with the hood open.

I turned into the gas station parking lot and instead of an animal dashing in front of me, it was my husband. He ran through the parking lot in his khakis and wool blazer, like OJ Simpson in the Hertz commercial from the 1970’s. I didn’t hit him, luckily, and just slowly followed him in my car, leaving some space as he got his suitcase and backpack out of the trunk. He dashed to my car and threw his stuff in the backseat.  The time was 5:46.

Me: Can you believe I heard my phone ring?

Him: No! I am glad you did. Thanks for coming to get me.
Me: How many times did you call me?
Him: Just once.
Me: That’s how lightly I sleep!

He just exhaled.

Me: Did you call the airline to let them know you had car trouble but are on the way?

Him: No, because I wasted all my time with the insurance company.

We don’t have AAA, but we do have roadside coverage through our car insurance. It’s pretty cheap, and apparently it gets you a tow truck with the same amount of waiting time as the competition.

Him: The tow truck can’t be here for another forty-five minutes, but get this…she asked me if I wanted to do a survey! At 5:30 in the fucking morning, while my car is broken down on the way to the airport to catch a 6:30 flight, she wants to know if I would like to answer a few questions! What the fuck? No, I don’t want to answer any of your goddamn questions! If I was in an accident and needed an ambulance, would she say, we will contact the dispatcher but first would you like to take a survey?!? Jesus people are so stupid! Can’t anyone think for them fucking selves anymore? Asking someone to take a survey when all they want is roadside assistance!

I realize that tirade has a lot of exclamation points. If there were a stronger form of punctuation to convey the anger and frustration with which my husband yelled, I would use it.

Me: Is that what you said to her?

Him: No I didn’t say that! Of course I didn’t say that! I just said something like ‘Look lady, I don’t mean to be rude, but I am kind of in a hurry here, so I don’t want to answer…’
Me: Your goddamn questions?
Him: Close enough.

In case you were wondering, he made the flight on time. My daughter felt validated. He enjoyed his trip. Clemson lost. The car is repaired. And I already told him that next year, if Clemson finds itself again in contention for a national championship, that I will be joining him in sunny Florida. We can even drive my car.