I Take This Man

I went to two weddings yesterday, each very different from the other. The first wedding consisted of two long time divorcees who have struggled for years with the dating scene and never thought they'd find love again. Their ceremony was simple and moving. They wrote their own vows and incorporated the bride's teenaged daughters. I don't usually cry at weddings, but this one was a tear jerker. As I watched I thought this was two people who already know how tough marriage is and are approaching it with the honesty and dedication it deserves. The second wedding was a young couple fresh out of college and head over heels in love. As I watched their wedding I thought, boy, they don't have a clue what they're in for. All of the premarital counseling in the world just can't prepare you for the reality of marriage and the grit it takes to make it work year after year. As I listened to their traditional vows, I thought to myself, who wrote this stuff? Yeah, all that "in sickness and in health"and "for richer for poorer" stuff is important, but it doesn't really include everything does it? I think we should add a few things. Keep it a little more real so there are fewer surprises later.

How about promising to take your spouse even if he leaves his wet towels in the bathroom, hogs the tv remote or passes gas with the force of a category three tornado? Or accepting that he will sometimes pick a crappy birthday gift, maybe never send roses or leave used dental floss on the bathroom counter. Perhaps the men should promise to accept hormonally driven mood swings, changes in temperment that can't be explained and a compulsion to hoard shoes. And maybe they should agree to accept an occasional phoned in meal, leg hair left in the shower and the insistance that he learn to read the female mind. Aren't these the kinds of things that prompt most arguments? Loving someone is easy. Loving them when they leave toenail clippings on the living room floor year after year is a lot tougher.

Hair's Looking at You

I took Mama J. to the beauty shop this morning. She doesn't drive these days, so we take her each Saturday morning. The second coming could be imminent, and she would not cancel her standing appointment at the beauty parlor. However, she would be perfectly coifed for her meeting with St. Peter. You see, she is one of those senior women who relies on what's known as the "wash and set" method of hair maintenance. Once a week, a stylist curls, backcombs, sprays and puffs Mama J.'s hair into roughly the same style she's had since 1972. She hasn't washed her own hair in years. It's not a method that I would choose, but it works for her. She is part of a dying breed of "wash and setters". Most women now opt for something more simple as they grow old, but for Mama J. and a handful of others, the weekly trek to the corner clip and curl is the only way to go.

There are some telltale signs of a member of this clique. First of all, they usually fill the shops on Friday and Saturday mornings. That's so the 'do will be fresh for weekend outings such as bridge, dinners and church. They each have the same time slot each week. Mama J.'s is 9:40am. Hardly anyone in the shop this morning was under 50 years old, and it was the same faces we see week after week. Woe is the stylist who goofs and books a newcomer in someone's standing appointment slot. Improving your time slot is a little like joining the country club. You have to get on a list, and someone practically has to die in order for an opening to become available.

The second sign of membership is the satin pillow. When your hair is combed only once a week, you have to treat it gently in order for it to maintain its style for seven days. Sleeping on a satin pillow, preferably the "neck roll" helps with this. Those satin pillows aren't always easy to find. We once spent an hour searching an outlet center for a particular store that was rumored to sell those things. Once we found it, we bought two pillows so we could have a backup in reserve.

The biggest sign is the rain bonnet. Keeping the hairdo dry is of utmost importance, especially early in the week. Despite mass amounts of AquaNet, the wash and set can be reduced to a sticky mess by the lightest of rain showers. Water must be avoided at all times. Experienced "wash and setters" never go anywhere without a plastic rain bonnet. We were once riding on a log flume ride at an amusement park when the elderly lady in front of us whipped out a rain bonnet right before the first big splash. No Boy Scout was ever prepared more. While it is rare for Mama J. to leave the house without her rain bonnet, she did get caught without one during a sudden downpour a few years ago. In fact, so did Aunt K. who was with us. When it was obvious that the rain wasn't going to let up, they both resorted to putting Walmart bags on their head in order to dash from the car to the restaurant. And they thought it would be more embarrassing to have messed up hair? Hmmm.

The wash and set method just won't work for me when I get old. I won't be able to stand the itching and the hair spray. I will probably be the old woman with a long gray braid because I won't know what else to do with it. Oh, excuse me...the long blond braid. I may be brunette now, but in the south, we'll go blonde before we'll go gray. So let's see, I'm going to need an appointment every six weeks for that, won't I?

Phrase Daze

It’s no secret that kids and parents have trouble communicating. That cell phone commercial where the mom tries to speak “text shorthand” back to her daughter and gets all tongue tied is a perfect example. In an effort to bridge the communication gap, I thought I would share with the young folks a few popular parenting phrases and their translations.

“In a Minute”-From the Latin word “minutia”, meaning unimportant to me right now. This phrase is used by parents as a stalling technique because we have neither the time nor the desire to stop what we’re doing right now to accommodate your wishes. The use of this phrase means you will not likely get what you want in a minute. In fact, there’s a really good change you won’t get it at all…especially if you keep asking.

“I Need a Minute Alone”-Originated thousands of years ago. In fact, Jesus used it on the disciples. It means you are driving me crazy at the moment. I have no more patience, and you will be wearing your butt for a hat if you don’t back away…s-l-o-w-l-y…NOW.

“Didn’t I Just Give You Money for That Last Week?”- Derivation of the slang term “Crap”. This generally means that it’s two days before payday, and I don’t have two nickels to rub together. It’s at this point I usually ask if the school cafeteria takes credit cards. (My daughter once asked me for lunch money on a particularly stressful morning when I didn’t have a dime. Rather huffily, I said the lunch lady would just have to wait ‘til payday. The lunch lady told me later that when my little second grader rolled through the lunch line and was asked if she had brought any money to add to her account, she told them rather righteously, that her momma said they’d just have to wait ‘til payday. I was rolling in humility that day.)

And my all time favorite, “Because I Said So”-Many cultures claim to have originated this phrase. It has been seen on cave walls and documented in ancient Egyptian history. Loosely translated, this phrase means “no”. I don’t have or need a good reason to turn you down, I’m just saying no. It trumps all arguments from children. It’s often used in conjunction with “Because I’m the Parent”.

And just to show I’m willing to learn about the language of our youth, I am practicing the use of some of their terms. Just yesterday, my daughter asked me to stop dancing around the house. I responded with a roll of the eyes and a drawn out “whaaaatevvvver”. I think we’re getting somewhere.

Pass (on) the Bread

Some people dream of exotic vacations or winning the lottery. I dream of reaching into the cabinet at our house and pulling out two fresh pieces of bread. No dents, no dings, no mold. Just two similar sized pieces of the same brand that don’t need scraping, pulling or stretching in order to accommodate a piece of bologna and a squirt of mustard. Wonder Bread at our house means the loaf made it from the Piggly Wiggly to our driveway without getting squashed or abandoned along the way. They say it takes a village to raise a child. Well, it takes a police escort to get bread to our house intact. I’m not kidding. Despite our best intentions, we always end up with a sorry excuse for the makings of a sandwich.

Our grocery journey starts off safely enough. With the skill of a surgeon, I slide the loaf off the shelf and into our cart. It goes in the child seat, next to my purse. For the next thirty minutes, I wail, “Don’t hit the bread!” every time Hubby or Teen Angel tosses something into the cart. I can’t tell you the number of times we’ve had to put it back and exchange it for a new loaf because we’ve mashed it with a stray can of tuna or package of frozen peas. Is it wrong to put it back? It is isn’t it? The bread is the last item to leave the cart and roll down the checkout counter. The clerk gingerly places it in a sack all by itself and hands it to us like it’s a gallon of nitro glycerin. She’s in on our game. (Remember, it takes a village.) Months ago we divulged our problem to her because we need all the help we can get. She even asks us how we did the previous week, shaking her head at our incompetence. This is a critical stage in our journey because we have been known to get sidetracked with conversation or Woman’s World magazine cartoons and actually leave the bread on the checkout carousel. Milk, too, but that’s another column. I cradle the loaf like a newborn baby and walk it to the van, placing it away from all of the other groceries for fear of something rolling over it on our way to the house. We all bow our heads and say a prayer that a dog doesn’t run in front of us, requiring us to slam on the brakes. (And forgive us Lord for putting the squashed loaf back on the shelf. Amen.) Arriving at home is another critical juncture. Sometimes we forget and leave the bread in its special place in the van where it withers into a dried up mass that usually turns up on Sunday morning on the way to church.

Even if the bread actually makes it into the house, there is no guarantee you’ll get two decent slices out of it. The first six pieces will dry out because Teen Angel loses the twist tie every week. The middle gets mashed by the phone book which sits nearby. That leaves the heels and a few suspect slices that slid out onto the floor the day before when you picked the bag up without the twist tie. That means you have to dig around in the 35 calorie per slice loaf left over from Hubby’s diet or my whole wheat loaf from the week I needed more fiber in order to find the required two slices for a sandwich. It’s a lot of effort for a stinkin’ sandwich. That’s why we eat a lot of bologna and crackers.

The Neighborhood Line

I think it was Erma Bombeck who wrote about clothes lines and how, years ago, the stuff hanging on them used to tell the world what was going on in your household. Illness, a new baby and other special events were all telegraphed by diapers and other items strung along those lines. Hardly anyone has a clothes line anymore, except me. My husband hates it. He thinks it makes us look like the Beverly Hillbillies. Sorry, hon. You can take the girl out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the girl. It's great for drying swimsuits and pool towels and filling my sheets with sweet smelling pollen.

As I was running through our neighborhood this morning, I realized that even without the clothes lines, we all leave little signals as to what's going on in our homes. The Millers have been gone for three days. That usually means they're in Louisville visiting the new grandbaby. The Scott's have four cars in their driveway. That extra Chrysler means their daughter is still on the outs with her husband. Mr. Darnall isn't sitting in his lawn swing. He's usually out there by 10am. Hmm. I make a mental note to check on him if he doesn't emerge by lunchtime. He's 83 now and getting feeble. From the looks of the debris scattered in the Thompson's yard, their sons are home from college now, and they're still drinking like fish. I wish they'd pick up their beer cans. Oh, look. Mr. Ballard is cleaning up his carport. I'll be they bought that boat they've been talking about. Hey, Mr. Brooks is mowing his yard. I guess he's recovering okay from that light stroke he had last month. Yep. A jog around the subdivision keeps my thighs from turning to Jello, but it also tells me what's going on with my neighbors without ever speaking to them.

Hmm. I wonder what my house and yard says to them. I can hear them now. Look at all that cheap underwear on the clothes line. She must have found another sale at Walmart. I wish she'd wear more of it when she walks the dog at 5:30 in the morning. Can you believe they still use a clothes line? What hillbillies.

The N Word

Mama J. mentioned the N word this week-nursing home. Gulp. While we don't deny that could very well be in her and Papa T.'s future, we don't think we're there yet. In fact, we're working really hard to keep a move to the nursing home or assisted living facility at bay. One day at a time, that's our motto. Some days are easier than others, and their house isn't really built for disabled senior citizens, but we're doing all we can to keep them in their home for a little longer. So far, it's working. We know how difficult leaving their home of 40 years would be, so we don't like to talk about it. That's why it was so surprising that she said it. Nursing home. It's a heavy word. It just sits in the mouth like a piece of cardboard to be chewed and chewed and choked down whole with a nauseating aftertaste. Assisted living. Hmm. That's a little easier to swallow.

They're not really ready to go either, and some probing conversation revealed that she brought it up only because she was feeling especially low about her health and guilty about the time we spend taking care of them. An improvement in her latest kidney issue and some reassurances from us have put her fears on hold...for now. But perhaps we should start researching facilities now so we can be prepared if and when the time comes. That's because we have some firm requirements in a facility that takes care of them.

Oh, we'll want to make sure they get the best medical care possible, but we have other concerns, too. Is ice cream available at 9 o'clock each night? Preferably, butter pecan. Turner Dairy brand. Not the cheap stuff. How about crackers crumbled up in a glass of milk to help with tummy troubles? A wash and set on Saturday mornings is nonnegotiable, and a satin pillow to maintain that hairdo throughout the week is important. Is the phone available at all times to catch up on what's going on with the kids, grandkids, neighbors, old friends, acquaintances and others? How about a weekly outing to Cracker Barrell? Are Moon Pies available 24/7? Will you tolerate loud profanities and jumping up and down by Papa T. when U.K. is on the losing end of a ballgame? Can diamonds be worn to dinner? Do you serve margaritas at least once a month? No salt, to keep the leg swelling down, but premium tequila, please. Is Arbonne lipstick sold in the gift shop?

That's just the beginning. I should start making a list now. It could take a while to find a place that serves top shelf margaritas.

Family Functions

A coworker asked at lunch this week if she was the only one with a dysfunctional family. "Are you kidding?", I snorted. "We all have dysfunctional families". I looked around though, and everyone else had this blank look on their face, pretending not to know what I was talking about. Come on! I know they have their fair share of goobers and crazies in their families. After all, this is the South. We celebrate that kind of thing. They're just unwilling to admit it. I don't know why. We're all in the same boat. My family is full of dysfunction, and it doesn't bother me at all.

Let's see, there's the relative who fell off of a motorcycle years ago and hasn't been quite right since. You never know where conversation is going to go with him. I have a great aunt who is the "whailer" and "fainter" at every funeral regardless of how well she knew the person. She also has a perverse habit of snapping photos of the diseased. You have to be careful when you're sifting through her vacation photos because the cadaver pics are scattered among them. Right there between Savannah and Tampa is Uncle Roy in his black suit. We have a lot of undiagnosed depression on my mom's side of the family that causes some interesting twists in relationships. I can't even begin to blog about that without the risk of alienating myself from the family. I will just say, "There is no hidden money Aunt B.!". And don't forget my cousin in federal prison. He's doing life for drug and attempted murder. He's really not a bad guy. He was just too lazy to work. I can accept the drug charges, but I really can't buy the attempted murder conviction. He wouldn't hurt a fly. We all sign a "thinking of you" card for him at the family reunion each year. We're thoughtful that way.

This is just the tip of the iceberg. I could go on and on. I have a lot of family. A LOT. We have plenty of quirks and personality conflicts. We rumble a little and roll with the ups and downs. But no matter what happens, we always support each other when times gets tough. We may roll our eyes and clench our teeth, but we will pick great Auntie M. off the funeral home floor, help her to the casket, nod when she says "doesn't he look nice" and look the other way while she has her Kodak moment. We love each other. We need each other, cause it's a crazy world out there.