Spit It Out!

NO SPITTING

Men seem to consider their own spit toxic. As I wait at a red light the truck door in front of me opens, a man leans out, and he spits on the pavement. I come out of a restaurant after having enjoyed a nice dinner and just ahead of me a man spits into the bushes.  Even my husband, who is somewhat domesticated, spits into the toilet at the exact same minute I’m brushing my teeth. Yuck! Gross!

What is the deal with spitting? I really want to know. My female friends never seem to need to expectorate their own saliva. If it builds up noticeably we simply—are you listening, men?—swallow. You should try it.

Or is spitting something males must do, like male dogs marking their territory? Is it a compulsion? Please, tell me the reason for all this sputum-spittage.

Which brings me to another nasty male habit. Peeing outside. (Okay, I must admit there was one little neighbor girl who peed in my hedges, but she wasn’t terribly civilized in any other area, either. And she attended a “progressive” private school, part of a chain, where they probably made peeing in public part of the regular curriculum.)  Little boys seem especially compelled to pee outside. I know—I’ve watched Supernanny.  Are males born with the urge to pee in fresh air, or is a learned behavior?

A Scout leader told me he and his Scouts didn’t need bathrooms on camping trips; “The world is my bathroom.”

I said, “But your bathroom is my world!”

So, men, tell me why you spit so much. Just spit it out. You do everywhere else.

Baby, I Was Born This Way

    © Andrei Zdetovetchi | Dreamstime Stock Photos

 

Forbidden love. I confess to a mad, crazy love for something that—because of my sex—the world views as wrong and inappropriate. I know, this type of lust is supposed to be exclusively male, but I can’t help myself. I refuse to hide my love despite what people think.

Yes, I’m a woman. And yes, I love my backyard grill.

Ten years ago I was complaining about our gas grill. “Hot spots! Flare-ups! I can’t control the temperature on this thing! I need a new grill!” John, my decidedly non-grill-lusting husband, reminded me I’d said the same things about the previous grill, and maybe it was time to go a new route.

A new route? Not charcoal. I didn’t have the time or patience to wait for a charcoal grill to get ready. But he said this was different, it was hard wood charcoal on a ceramic grill. You could maintain the temperature, no hot spots, no flare-ups, and it took only 10-20 minutes for the grill to be ready for cooking: the Big Green Egg.

It’s expensive, but supposedly lasts forever. We had a little money to spare (yes, I was shocked, too) so we went all out and bought one.

And I fell madly, passionately in love. I’ve made the same chicken recipe on my BGE and on the little electric countertop grill—no comparison. I can slow-smoke a pork shoulder, grill amazing burgers, ribs, chicken, whatever; it’s all delicious.   

My only complaint? We cheaped out. When we priced the BGE I asked John, How many kidneys do you need, really? But he went with the medium Egg, not the large or extra-large, so when we had a gang over I had to cook in shifts, hold items in the oven while I cooked another load. I kept an eye on the kidney black market, but let’s face it, 63-year-old kidneys don’t command prime prices. Finally I took a chance on a Weber charcoal grill.

The first day as I piled on the briquettes a son-in-law looked over my shoulder and said, “Is that going to be enough charcoal?” I said, “Yes, I counted out 50, the number the Weber grilling book said to use for this size of grill.” He stared at me pop-eyed for a moment, then cracked up. But it was exactly enough charcoal to cover the grid. So there.

The Weber makes a pretty good sidekick to the BGE, and I’ve discovered a chimney charcoal starter that shortens the wait time.

Which brings me to another illicit love, the love of two grills at the same time. How do I defend this? In the words of the great theologian, Lady Gaga: Baby, I was born this way.

Like a Kid in a Coffee Shop

It was an unlikely group to grace a coffee shop with its presence—three generations: grandparents, parents, a boy of about five and a curly-haired girl about two years old. Before they even made it into the coffee shop just steps ahead of me, the little girl was whining and on the verge of pitching a fit. I mentally rolled my eyes—I was there to work on something with an actual deadline, having had trouble ignoring housework and laundry at home, and didn’t want the distraction of a whiney child. Then I told myself not to be that person. It’s bad enough I don’t like pets—now I’m not a fan of other people’s kids, too?

So I followed them in and got my simple cup of coffee while they discussed the menu board. The little girl kept yelling, “Mommy! Mommy! Juice! Juice! Juice! Juice!” No one acknowledged her demands so she just kept demanding.

I found a spot and set up my computer, but it’s a small shop and I was twelve feet at most from their table. The grandparents sat down, then the kids came to claim a chair—the same chair. The little girl made that pre-verbal “Nnnnnnnuh!” roar and pushed her brother off. Imperiously she pointed at an empty chair. He took it without complaint.

Soon Grandma was standing by the girl’s chair, telling her to sit or kneel so she wouldn’t fall. Eventually the little girl let one knee hit the seat of the chair for a moment and Grandma went back to her chair. In minutes they were at it again, and Grandma muttered something about a high chair. Grandpa said, “Or a strait jacket.” I thought that sounded like a fine idea.

When the parents joined them there was much fuss about where everyone would sit, and the little girl decided she would abandon her chair and sit on her mother’s lap, to whine and cry and yell. Half the time the mother was trying to keep the child from slithering off her lap, or guard her coffee from being knocked across the table.

Shall I quit with the blow-by-blow? I think so. It didn’t get any better. The food was not to her liking, the company not to her liking, apparently nothing met her standards. Lacking vocabulary, she cried and roared and pounded and threw.

Dad plowed through his breakfast and ignored the uproar. Mom placated, wrestled, dodged, distracted, tried everything she could. Except, of course, discipline.

Once the parents and grandparents bolted their meals, Grandma stayed behind with Dad to help him clear the incredible wasteland that had once been a table. Well, I thought she stayed to help. As soon as the mommy was out the door, Grandma began lecturing the daddy on “that’s the only way she’s going to learn. And you’re going to have to do it. That’s the only way she’s going to learn.” I listened desperately to find out Grandma’s secret to containing the little monster, but missed that part.

I heard what the daddy said, though: “You’re right. You’re right. You’re right.”

I got the feeling they’d had that conversation before—and would have it again.  

What Was I Saying?

So, there I was, naked and dripping in the shower, a towel ten feet away in friend Lynne’s long bathroom. And yes, there was a towel hook next to the shower.

John is forever reminding me. “Reminding” is our code word for nagging. If he got to proof these prior to my posting them he’d defend himself by saying he has to remind me or crazy things happen—and he’s right. Without his reminding I would plan a dinner party for the night I’m supposed to be doing colonoscopy prep. Or I’d tell three different couples they could spend the holidays when I have only two spare bedrooms.

And this is me on a good day. It was much worse when I had chemo-brain.

John: We’re going to that potluck Saturday, remember?

Me: Oh. Right.

John: You said you’d bring your cheese potatoes.

Me: Oh. Right.

John: Do you have the ingredients?

Me. Oh. No.

He would work out a plan for us to get the ingredients and help me schedule the time to begin cooking. He’d patiently go through his mental checklist as often as it took to get me dressed and out the door, potatoes in hand. (Note: My cheese potatoes are spectacular. And I do share recipes.)

Our Middle Child worked a college summer job with her father’s company and they rode to work together. One day she came home saying, “Mom! Why does Daddy keep reminding me of things over and over? Why does he treat me like I’m four years old?”

I pondered a moment. “Well, he’s lived with me for a very long time.”

Just then John walked in saying, “Honey, you have a dentist appointment tomorrow so we’ll have to drive separately.”

Middle Child said, “I know I have a dentist appointment tomorrow! I made the appointment! Why do you remind me of things over and over?”

John pondered a moment. “I’ve lived with your mother for a very long time.”

Back to me, naked and dripping in Lynne’s shower. (I know, you didn’t want that image in your head the first time, much less again, but you probably needed a reminder.) I stepped out onto the shower rug and shuffle-slid across the cold tile. And the next morning I actually remembered to hang the towel on the hook. Sometimes I amaze myself.

How about you? The memory of an elephant, or of a … Wait. Is there an opposite of an elephant’s memory? If so, I forget.

Once(?) Upon a Mattress

I’m not sure where my parents obtained mattresses for beds for eight children. Since I can only remember them buying one new bike when I was a kid (the other two being purchased used, with our mythical allowances confiscated for those purchases), I’m thinking the mattresses were never new, just new to us. That when a great-aunt went to her satin-lined final rest, her old mattress was ceremoniously dumped on a wobbly bed frame at our house. The mattress my sister and I shared had a habit of slipping its frame and dumping us on the floor. Sometimes instead of calling for help, we just slept where we landed on the hardwood. You had to be tough to survive in my home.

The National Sleep Foundation did a study of how recently people had replaced their mattresses, but I find the study to be woefully inadequate. The longest category was “more than 5 years,” with 37% selecting that grouping. I want to know how many people—other than my parents—kept previously-used mattresses until all their children grew up, then kept them some more until they downsized when they (I assume) gave the mattresses to some other needy family. Then bought a furnished place in Florida and still have those mattresses on the guest room beds twenty years later.

My parents and people like them are not the reason for the proliferation of mattress stores in the U.S.

Have you noticed that? Every strip mall, appliance store and big department store sells mattresses now. It’s like back in the 80s when every strip mall started out with a dry cleaner, a nail salon and a tanning shop. Then it was banks springing up on every corner and in every grocery store, with pharmacies battling for the same spots.

So what’s the next shop to over-saturate the market? Frozen yogurt? Specialty pet stores? My personal kryptonite would be a combination kitchen shop and bookstore: The Cook and Book. Crockery and Bookery. Valerie’s Bliss.

What new shop would you like to see in your area? Dream big, people!

What Are You Going to Be When You Grow Up?

Just call me Mom

We went to a party the other night where we were asked to wear nametags because a few newcomers would be joining us. That didn’t actually happen—apparently they had something more fun to do. Or maybe it was some other reason.

There was a little addendum to the nametag thing. We had to write our name, and what we wanted to be when we grew up, as dreamed in third grade.

Many of the attendees were, how shall I say it? past middle age. Back when I was a third-grader, little girls were not expected to have a career. Oh, if we wanted to do something before we settled down to our real destiny of cooking, cleaning, and laundry, all the while making and raising babies, maybe we could dabble in nursing or teaching for a few years. Those were pretty much the open careers for females. By the time we got to high school we were actually encouraged to think beyond home and babies, but back in third grade? No.

All that to explain the responses. The men wrote things like explorer, scuba diver (remember the old TV series Sea Hunt?), cowboy, ball player, farmer, vet, etc. One woman wrote horse trainer and another listed nurse, but many of the women had a problem coming up with anything. One woman wrote “I don’t remember that far back,” another wrote “horse” (do you remember those girls who galloped around the playground and whinnied?), and one wrote, “a boy.” Yes, she wanted to be a boy when she grew up. Well, no wonder! Boys were going to be explorers and scuba divers and ball players and cowboys.

What about me? In grade school I attended a small Catholic school. I remember in second grade all the other girls said they wanted to be nuns. And I’m sure there was no pressure on anyone to choose that path, right? But even at that age I knew I wanted a family someday, and nuns were not allowed to have children. So at the party the other night, my nametag said “Valerie—Mom.”

I achieved my dream.

What about you? What did you dream of being? And no cheating, like my husband. He ignored the “in third grade” instruction and wrote “party animal” on his nametag. I promptly shredded it and made him try again.

And no, he never did learn to scuba dive.

Gotta Love Him

I was talking to a daughter and mentioned a mother of teens who had evidently streaked her hair with Kool-Aid (food dye? Crayola markers?) in a shade of red not found in real hair.

“Was she single?” my daughter wanted to know.

Hmm. What would be the purpose? To attract a man who wanted a younger woman? If he wanted a younger woman and you fooled him into thinking you were younger, what would happen when you got even older? Seems self-defeating. I, for one, wouldn’t want a man who didn’t want the real me. I seem to get realer by the minute.

My daughter thanked me for not being one of those women who tries too hard to look younger. And yes, she meant it in the nicest way possible, so shut up. She mentioned middle-aged women lusting after significantly-younger males, women old enough to be the boys’ mothers wearing T-shirts proclaiming Team Jacob or Team Whatsisname from the Twilight movies. Nope, never occurred to me. I watched about five minutes of the first movie and then found a book to read.

Some years ago a couple I knew was lying on a beach. The turd of a husband motioned to a sweet young babe and said, “Why don’t you look like that?” The wife said, “Because I could be her mother. And you could be her father.” Unbelievably, he’s still married—and alive.

I remember the day my husband and a group of men were outside in a tourist town, waiting on the wives to finish shopping. A woman young enough to be their daughter walked by and when she was out of earshot several of the men commented on her looks. My husband’s comment? “Wow. Her mother must be beautiful.”

You gotta love a man like that.

Photo: Doris Ulmann [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons