NOT A REAL CLOSER

When we live with a person for a long period of time, we can become annoyed with habits they either have or develop.  After thirty nine years of marriage, Mud Flap and I have developed quite a few that could be considered “unpleasant” or “totally maddening”.   As a Prom Queen, I feel certain that I have none of these ugly characteristic behaviors.  However, I know that in some eyes I might be an offender in the grandest of senses.

            But since this is my story, I only choose to pin point the habits of my darling Mud Flap!  Over the years, I have noticed that he has developed the habit of “not closing” the trash masher.  This started at our vacation home.  I would awaken to an open trash masher every morning of our time spent on vacation.  I always wondered if it was broken.  I tried to tinker with the machine.  It always worked perfectly for me and I assumed that the closing mechanism was only misfiring when used by Mud Flap.  One morning, I awoke to find it not only ajar, but opened all the way.  This stumped me.  When Mud Flap wandered into the kitchen a good three or four hours later (sleep for Mud Flap is one that begins at two am and extends until noon – why bother going to sleep in the dark when you can sleep the day away!)  I asked what had happened.  Had the machine just refused to close?  Was there too much garbage?  Was there a living creature that he was trying to nurture?  Did that creature need more air? 

            “Honey” he responded, “I always leave it open so that it doesn’t break.  If you use it too much and open and close it too much, it will break.  Don’t you understand?”  I quietly tried to assimilate this new found information.  My mind wandered through the gambit of logical responses to this answer.  Was I just too uninformed to think that one could purchase a piece of equipment that could be opened and closed?  Was this limitation one that I never realized?  Was garbage a real attractive addition to our kitchen and truly needed to be displayed?  My puzzlement left me speechless.  But, life went on…..

            We then acquired a new one in our home when we moved.   I was very excited about having one and made sure that closing was in the contract.  It was.  I determined that this would not be an issue with this new machine.  I was assured by the salesman that this was not an issue that had plagued the thousands of customers that had purchased this particular piece of equipment.  It seems that this was unique to our trash masher.  At first, I delighted in being able to have our garbage “under wraps” so to speak.   I never had to enjoy the view of last night’s dinner when coming into the kitchen after my early morning runs.  Absolute joy was mine!   But, suddenly, in the past few months, the same problem must have developed.  Mud Flap began the habit of leaving the trash masher open.  It happened gradually.  At first, I thought, “he just forgot that this is not an issue with our machine.  He has forgotten” I didn’t mention it for fear that this would only encourage this type of behavior.  But, alas, the case of the open trash masher continued and is now perpetual.  Not only do we have all of our garbage on display for all to see, we are sharing the aroma of “old food” with all…..and our home smells like the city dump!  And, to make this even more exciting, I now find all the kitchen cabinets left ajar.  After every meal.  After every visit to the kitchen.  While I sleep, and while Mud Flap has his midnight feasts, they curiously open and stay open for me to find them the next morning.

            After a few months of watching this deteriorating situation, I decided to ask Mud Flap about the case of the curiously open cabinet doors and trash masher.   While he was showering, after a particularly active day of open cabinets and trash masher, I asked him (very innocently) “Honey, I noticed that the cabinets and trash masher are open.  Are you finished in the kitchen?  Are you going back to finish a project that has somehow escaped my knowledge?”  He responded, ever so innocently, “I noticed that I do that.  I guess you could say that I’m just not a closer.”  And that ended the conversation.

            Amazing, how a really annoying habit can be explained so easily.  “I’m not a closer” could probably become an explanation for all that is left undone in our life. 

            So easy.  How could I have missed this?  Life is funny…..

AS LONG AS YOU’RE GOING…..

            I love to share stories of romantic moments  .  They can be very fleeting sometimes.  Or they can be very emotional and develop over a long and sentimental conversation.  They can be the most spontaneous or the most “thought out” moments. 

            My romantic moment of the day came this evening.   It came in the middle of the week….a Wednesday.  Normally, we save our “romantic date” for the weekend when we can both relax and enjoy a care free evening with no looming work appointments or obligations.   But, as it may, our moment came early this week.

            Mud Flap had come home from work after having “meetings” with fellow colleagues.  This meant that a few libations had been shared after leaving the office and before coming home.  This was not unusual and I had dinner waiting for him when he came home.  He was in a very celebratory mood and shared and shared and shared the events of the day.   The mood was one of great relief to have so many pending items “off the list of worries” and for that, I was delighted. 

            One story led to another and that lead to yet one more.  Dinner ran a little late….because one must “unwind” and enjoy that Dewar’s before sitting down to dinner…… So, dinner was a real dénouement to the evening so to speak.  After cleaning up the dishes, Mud Flap looked up at me and said, “Honey, do you want a blizzard?”  (This is the dessert of choice for so much of the time…we do live very close to a DQ and they do make wonderful Heath Bar/Oreo/Butterfinger Blizzards).  Since I had long since finished any thought of dining as it was almost my bed time (Prom Queens really do need their beauty sleep!)  I declined on the offer of a blizzard.  “Well, would you drive with me?  I’d love to spend some more time with you!”  

            How sweet you might say.  I thought so too.  And, being somewhat responsible, I replied, “Well, I’d love to.   I’ll drive so that you can relax and we can visit! “ (and the scotch in your hand won’t spill out!)  

            After a brief pause, he responded, “Well, if you’re driving, would you just mind going and getting me one and I’ll wait here for you?” 

            Now if that doesn’t spell romance, I don’t know what does!

DON'T YOU ADORE YOUR GRANDCHILDREN!

            I don’t think I could love my grandchildren anymore than I do.  As I have said before, when I first met my oldest grand son I looked at my husband and said, “he is the man in my life….the rest of the family just became twenty on my list of ten!”  They capture my heart and as any proud grandmother, they are the most intelligent, beautiful creatures ever created.

            And they are funny.  Out of the mouths of babes so applies to these little creatures.  After a recent visit with my grandchildren, I was so excited to have the younger one be able to say my name.  My grandmother name is “Marnie” and for so long, the younger of the two couldn’t say my name.  This is not unusual and I awaited the day when he would look at me and recognize me with a certain name.  This had been done before my visit with a very clear “Doo Doo”!  I laughingly responded in kind, thinking that somehow this might have been in error.  No, my daughter assured me, he looks at my picture and clearly says “Doo Doo”.  Why I wondered until one day his big brother called me on the phone and playfully said “Doo Doo Marnie” – we are definitely into Potty Talk.  Since I love anything they say, I always respond with a “you are too funny precious!”  To which they reiterated “Doo Doo Marnie”.  (An aside at this point.  A conversation that was overheard between my four year old grandson and one of his peers is that “I talk potty talk with my Marnie…its O.K.”) 

            All that is to say, the mystery was solved.  My younger grandson got the first part of the name, and not the second!  But, as he has grown and after spending a week with them, I got my first “Marnie” from his sweet little voice!  I was elated and he now repeats and repeats it for me!  I’m in heaven.

            Now to my story.  I got a call from my daughter about the most recent venture to Target with this precious newly vociferous darling.   They were shopping and he suddenly saw a display of Miralax.  Now you might wonder why I bring this up but I must.  Since I’m an aging body, this is now part of my morning routine.  And because it is packaged in such bright and appealing colors, it has been an object of great curiosity to my grandchildren!  That being said, when he spied that display, he proudly announced (in a very loud voice I might add) “MARNIE!”   Again, and again, and again!   To all in the area, they appreciated that his Marnie obviously loved Miralax! 

            I have since wondered why he couldn’t have just gone back to “Doo Doo” for one day.  This would have left the audience thinking him to be the most precocious of 18 month olds!

            I love my grandchildren!!!

Florence Nightingale?

I know that I have related the nursing prowess of Mud Flap in past entries. However, I had forgotten the most memorable of times when this particular skill set became apparent. It was three years ago. We had weathered many a tough time in the 36 years we had been married at that point. I felt that we had moved to a superior plane….one that would give us the innate ability to care and nurture one another in sickness. (and health…Mud Flap had that one down anyway!)

I had been diagnosed with a “deteriorating hip joint” and was scheduled for a hip replacement. Because my doctor of choice for this procedure was located in another city, it was necessary for me to be in the hospital in that city – i.e., Mud Flap was in a hotel and had much time on his hands. I worried that this would be problematic. But have no fear. He had resolved the issue. He scheduled several “necessary meetings” to be held at that location – time wise to coincide with my hospital stay. I was asked prior to going, “Now what time is your surgery? And do I have to be there?” This, of course, gave me great comfort as it is necessary to have someone available to make any life or death decisions while I am in surgery. Not only necessary, but required by the hospital and the doctor. My response a very terse “Yes”.

This did not set well with Mud Flap who then asked “How long will it take?” My lack of ability to predict the length of the surgery was met with utter distain. Not only my intelligence but compassion for his situation was questioned. “I run a multi-million dollar company and I need to know these things!” I promised, to the best of my ability, to make sure that the surgery went well and that I wouldn’t be too much of a burden to him.

The day of my surgery arrived. We went to the hospital. I was duly prepped and sedated and the surgery took place. I awoke in my hospital room to find him pacing and doing his e-mail. “You awake?” I replied, albeit a bit groggily, that I was. “Great! I need to meet (name a name, any name) and I’ll be gone for a couple of hours. “ I nodded and watched him leave the room.

The next time I saw him was that evening, after dinner had been served and after two physical therapy sessions. “How are you feeling?” “I’m not too bad, but because I can’t take any of the medications available, I’m in a bit of pain.” “Great!” And he eyed my dinner. “You hungry?” “Not really, why don’t you eat it!” “Great” And he ate my dinner, watched television and left within the hour.

The following day began as expected – physical therapy, doctors rounds, nurses helping me bathe etc. At noon, I got my first visit from Mud Flap. He was on his way to a meeting. “Just wanted to say hello! On my way!” After a quick peck, he left, not to return until the next morning. I decided that this would be the best medicine…nap and bed rest.

But, that would not be the situation! At 1:00 pm, a mere thirty minutes after his departure, there was a knock on my door. “Are you awake?” There stood a bald, ear ringed man, wearing a tight fitted wife beater and skin tight leather pants. “Yes, may I help you?” “I’m Brad, and I work at the bar at your husband’s hotel” Silence. “He asked me to come and visit with you. How are you?” And, that began a four hour visit with a gay bartender that my husband had hired to visit me in the hospital! We discussed his love life, his future with his significant other, the décor of his apartment, and the list goes on. Nurses continued to pop their heads in, with inquiring looks on their faces. But, to no avail. I was held prisoner in my bed for the duration.

Leave it to Mud Flap to hire a gay bartender to visit me in the hospital. Florence Nightingale? I think not.

HONOR THY MOTHER….

The joys of motherhood are untold. Days are filled with the most extreme fulfillment of nurturing and adoration. To hold a small baby is a treat that is un-paralleled. But, as with cats, kittens and babies do grow up. And a teenager is born.

This transformation was never as apparent as it was with my youngest son, Grits. From being a precocious and adorable blond, green-eyed angel, he transformed himself into a hormonal teenage boy. He was brilliant which made it even more difficult for me to succeed in “lassoing” his energy and directing him into a more productive direction. His intelligence kept him on the honor roll during the 8-3 period of the school day. It was the three pm to midnight shift that was problematic.

I remember one episode which brings utter tears of joy to my eyes. It was a Tuesday afternoon. The day was sunny and spring had blossomed. The sky was a wonderful blue and all was well in my world….Until Grits decided that he needed to express his independence. “I’m going to go to Furball’s house” he announced with a determination that made me see red. “No, you are going to stay home and finish the science project that is due tomorrow.” At that point in his life, he was sixteen, driving, and bullet-proof. He was the king of his castle (his castle being the four walls of his room) and no one would “tell him what to do.” “Yes, I am!” He grabbed the keys and stormed to the front door. “Not so fast” I said quietly. I found that the quiet voice was heard much more effective than the ten decibel tone I used on other occasions. “You can go, but give me the keys. That is my car and I can determine when and where it will hit the pavement.” Incredulous, he handed me the keys. He pulled the cell phone from his hip pocket and began to dial a number while saying “I’ll have Furball pick me up! You can have your car!” “Not so fast” I said…again. “Give me that phone. I bought it and I pay for it. It stays with me.” “Screw you!” he responded as he headed toward the door – tossing the phone to the floor. “Not so fast!” I said…again. “What now! You have my car and my phone. What else do you want?” I said, “Strip. You can leave this house the way you came into this world with your birthday suit. Everything else is mine. I bought it and it stays with me. So hit the road…after you strip!” With utter confusion in his eyes, he went back into his room and slammed the door. He did not go out that afternoon.

These are the moments that make one cherish the day! I love being a mother!

BOYS WILL BE BOYS

This is an adage I have heard from the day my first baby brother was born. It covers a multitude of sins…with no explanation. And it seems to offer the boys a pass, in terms of reactions or punishment, for all their infractions, be they large or small. And their existence as men is proof that this is evident. Otherwise, we would definitely be a society of women only, for all the males would have been buried alive in their teenage years.

That certainly holds true for my two sons, Bubba and Grits. I have often said that God gave me my girls….for he gave me those boys! It was the great balance of good versus evil in my life. My children’s teenage years were a part of my life that lives on and on in my memory. Because I decided in my perfectly ordered mind and ultimate wisdom that I wanted to have my children “close in age so that they could grow up together”, I had all four of my children in six years. That made for a busy early childhood era—back to back chicken pox, diapers beyond the imaginable, teething in unison, and sleepless nights for at least ten years.

But none of that “bliss” prepared me for the teenage years. I had four teenagers. They were all different and active. Brilliant and mischievous. Head strong and curious. There were no rules that went unquestioned. No barriers that went untested. My oldest child, Bubba, was the leader in my education into the minds of a teenager. He grew to be a wonderful, wise-cracking, whimsical and wild creature. My blond headed angel transformed into a Tasmanian devil – overnight.

My first realization that my life was no longer my own was when Bubba was a junior in high school. Mud Flap and I decided to go to a 7:00 p.m. movie. Mind you, the theater was merely three blocks from home. Because he was a junior in high school, followed by a ninth grader (Sweet Magnolia, my eldest daughter – and a perfect angel), an eighth grader (little Princess, my second daughter – a delight), and finally a sixth grader (Grits, a precocious son who idolized his brother), a baby sitter was out of the question. “We won’t be gone long” was my shout out to Bubba as we backed out of the driveway. “Take care of everyone” was the dying echo of my words as we hit the street.

By the time we had gotten to the corner, the first of several catering trucks had arrived. There was a line of twenty five cars waiting for the valet parking attendant to take their cars. The “Kegs for delivery” trucks were unloading the first of several kegs. Tables were set and the band was tuning up their guitars. There must be an underground system that is so efficient that they know when a house will be parentless in less than five minutes. Millions of teenagers are tapped onto this system.

Our car arrived at the theater about the time that our yard filled with 300 hundred writhing teens doing keg stands and shots! The party was on.

When the movie ended, approximately two hours from time of departure, we got into our car. As we drove the short distance home, there must have been a most amazing team of clean up artists that arrived, for by the time we got home, our yard was empty and save for the 50 cars parked around the neighborhood, we were blissfully unaware that we had had a party – and we hadn’t been invited!

With that kind of an education, I don’t wonder that when Grits became the magic age of 17, he too acquired the skill of “Party Planner” and perfected this art form! His parties were legendary. Even some of our neighbors would attend. Now of course, the details of this wonderful evening are somewhat enhanced in my memory, but the fact that a party can erupt in a matter of seconds is a fact beyond dispute! I might have glorified my account….maybe a touch!

I’m reminded of an occasion when Mud Flap was out of town on business and I had to go to visit my Little Princess in college. It was January 27th – her birthday. I had effectively taken care of Grits – he was to stay with a friend. There was soccer practice after school and dinner was at the friend’s home. He would sleep there and go to school in the morning. The evening was a Thursday. Not a weekend evening. I felt that I had covered all bases and left my home – alone and unprotected for 24 hours.

As luck would have it, there was a snow storm. It NEVER snowed in our town, but that day brought the storm. School was canceled and soccer practice was called. My friend told the boys that they could have dinner out and enjoy the evening. My house was unattended and now very available for every junior in high school in the entire city. A party happened.

Unfortunately, the house did not fare well at the hands of that group. Unbeknownst to Grits, I had booked several contractors to come on Friday morning to repair a door and cabinet in the house. When they arrived on Friday morning, they refused to come in as they thought that the house had been burglarized. They were about to leave when Grits drove up. After discovering the problem, he begged them to stay and do the job. In the meantime, he began to clean, and clean, and clean, the house. The trash was not only gathered but taken to the city dump to prevent me from seeing an overly full trash can. Because the workmen could not work as efficiently as planned because of the mess, Grits volunteered to cook for them if they would stay and finish. He raced to the store to buy only the finest steaks and potatoes. The grill was lit and a dinner of epic proportions was served on my best china to the ravenous contractors.

As they finished the job, Grits finished the last of the cleaning. The house was quiet. I pulled into the driveway fifteen minutes later. All was well. And I would have gone to my grave with that wonderful knowledge that “Grits” minded me! Except for one thing….my neighbor had also enjoyed the party and came over to share his excitement with me!

One would think that the 30 day restriction that served as his punishment would have somewhat dampened his zeal for a party, but Party Planner Grits was not to be deterred. When he went to college, he perfected this talent and during one Christmas vacation wanted to share this new knowledge with all of his childhood friends.

“Mom, I want to go to the lake for New Year’s Eve. Could I have a few friends up there? It would be better to be there and safe than driving in town. I will only have a couple of guys. Anyway, I really haven’t kept up with anyone at home. So no worries about too big a gathering.”

After a few moments of consideration and a discussion with Mud Flap, we agreed. Because he was in college and obviously so much more mature. We talked ourselves into a blissful state of stupidity in which we gave this man-boy the most admirable of traits! My, how he has grown up. And he is so responsible!

The day came. Grits took his car and left with a wave and “I love you guys, Happy New Year!” We sighed with a smile on our faces. How lucky are we? Our last child and we are able to live our life – without worry.

We donned our finest as we were going to a formal debutante ball. Tuxedoed and formaled, we drove our way to an evening of champagne and dancing! The evening was wonderful until the first of about 200 people came up to me. “Thank you sooooo much for opening up your lake house so that Johnny (just change the name any number of times) could enjoy the evening in a safe environment!” In stunned silence, we nodded and smiled. “Oh my God, what has he done?” Mud Flap was not going to go quietly into the night. “Honey, maybe he just asked this Johnny and who knows if Johnny is actually going. He might be using Marshall as a cover!” (My ability to obviscate the truth was absolutely amazing) Mud Flap had had enough of the scotch to let me lull him into a sense of tranquility. As each advancing parent approached, I learned to ask Mud Flap to get me another drink!! “You are certainly enjoying yourself tonight” he quipped as he turned, yet again, to get me another drink. After throwing the twentieth glass of wine on the floor, I managed to get Mud Flap to dance with me. All further “thanks” were lost in the crowded room.

The next morning, I awoke and called the lake house. “Hullo” was the groan I heard on the other end of the phone. “Grits? Grits? Is that you?” “Mom? “He was suddenly alert! “Happy New Year honey! I thought that Dad and I would come up and bring you your good luck so that you wouldn’t have to come to town!” The silence at the other end of the phone was deafening. “Honey?” “Mom, I don’t think that is a good idea.” Then, Grits’ girl (we’ll call her Ratso) got on the phone. “Maam, we would love to have you come. Can you give me about 48 hours? I promise me you will be much happier then.”

Such was the last of the lake parties. All keys are now in my possession. We learned much after the fact that Mr. Party Planner had about 400 of his closest friends to the house. There were admission tickets and beer cost $1 a glass. Not only was this against our rules, it is illegal to sell beer without a license. But, no fear. The money he made on the party was used to hire a clean up crew and to cover some of the expenses of the repair to the house.

Boys will be boys…… And men???

THE CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN….

This adage is one that has been around for the ages. Its implied meaning is that one can judge a “book by its cover.” Maybe and then maybe not. But. what fun it is to look at the fashion world and adjudge some of the more bizarre designer moments. The three piece suits and the GQ moments are sometimes a thing of the past. But oh what a statement they make…especially with a well-toned middle to set off the look!

Well, not one to be outdone -- ever, Mud Flap loves to make a statement. The world of fashion be damned, that has never dictated what he wears or how he wears what is in his closet. He is always on the cutting edge of questionable and over the years has raised several eyebrows. Never mind that the combinations that emerge from the depths of his closet have never been seen in daylight. Never mind that summer attire and winter fabrics might not be the way to go. Never mind the circumstance or the situation. What he finds is what he wears…..however he finds it! And wherever he goes!

One of the most memorable times was one Easter. We were celebrating the holiday at our lake home and going to early morning church in an open-air chapel on the water. Because it was Easter and we were attending a service, we all donned an appropriate manner of dress. The boys wore long pants and sleeved shirts. The girls, summer dresses. We were bathed and ready to get in the boat—which was the way in which we were traveling to this sacred event. After gathering the group – I, the Prom Queen (I aptly name myself this as I love to think of myself in that way) – led them to the boat. We boarded and awaited our captain.

We all talked as we waited. At the sound of a bang of the screen door at the house, we all turned our heads to see Mud Flap. Donned in his blue jean shorts, a denim shirt, denim baseball hat , tevas and wool socks, he bounded down the stairs and leapt on the boat.

“Are we going to the same party?” I asked him as he cranked the boat. “Hell, if you all want to get ALL DRESSED UP (comparatively, we were) and make yourselves uncomfortable at church, suit yourself. I’m at the lake and I’m wearing my lake clothes! And anyway, I won’t know anyone there! So, who cares?”

Glances all around was the only response to the dangling participle he left in the air, and off we went! We not only arrived at the chapel, but he decided to make sure we were seen by all by parking the boat next to the altar of the church. We debarqued and moved quickly to an empty set of seats. We were desperately trying to distance ourselves from Mud Flap who looked more like Gomer Pyle in his garage in Mayberry than the head of our clan.

Suddenly, from the crowd, I heard a voice saying, “Hey, Mud Flap! How are you?” This was followed by several more words of greeting! At least half of the congregation not only knew us, but knew Mud Flap very well! They were in their Sunday best and smiled at the teva-ed, jort clad, baseball capped gremlin. How proud we were to have him sit in our midst. Our hero….

The clothes certainly do make the man. What does this tell you? And to think that he is now in the textile business!