Existential Threat

We live in perilous times. I’ve been following news reports for months, keeping a finger on the pulse of global tensions and national politics and another finger on my own pulse to see which is more erratic. It’s a toss-up. 

I have solutions to offer but so far the president's advisors haven't contacted me. I’m confused by this. I’ve responded to every poll I read online. You’d think that would count for something. Ironically, friends don’t seek out my opinions either. People seem content with their own point of view and don’t really care about mine. Weird.

I’m not taking any of it personally, even though as a card-carrying baby boomer my gray hair ought to count for something. I’ve lived through so many national crises, surviving everything from the Vietnam War era to two national toilet paper shortages, that I could be labeled a National Treasure.

None of this matters to those in the Situation Room, though, so I’ve decided to let Washington handle Putin and Xi Jinping and Iran’s Ayatollah. I don’t have time to consult with them anymore. I’ve discovered an even bigger threat to my homeland security than nuclear holocaust, and the responsibility for dealing with this existential threat has fallen to me. At this very moment I am tracking down a terrorist hiding in tunnels right outside my own front door.

There’s a gopher in my yard.

I haven’t actually seen him in person, but he leaves mounds of calling cards everywhere he travels. For weeks he’s been building a subway system deep underground without my permission. He has no permits. No right-of-way. No legal authority. But every few days he comes up for air and sunlight and I find a big pile of dirt and a new hole in my lawn.

I think he’s part amphibian.

Well, I’ve had enough. Two weeks ago as I backed into my garage, I pointed through the driver's window at his little construction zone and snarled, “You’re going down. I have plans for you. I’m bringing in the bunker buster bombs.”

It was no empty threat. I’ve been doing my research on YouTube, y’all. I know what gopher traps look like and I’ve learned that I like my fingers too much to risk losing any of them. Those are best left to the professionals. My son-in-law came up with a method of his own. He prefers to flood the tunnels with a hose and when the soggy survivor pokes its little head up out of the ground, he’s waiting nearby with a golf club to play Wack-A-Mole.

It's all so violent. I even saw one YouTuber repeatedly throw lit matches into a gopher hole without explanation until on the third try he blew up his whole front yard. I didn’t see a gopher come flying out, though. I think his kamikaze idea backfired and he probably came away with singed eyebrows and nothing good to show for it.

“There has to be a better plan,” I told a friend of mine.

“Well, whatever you decide, just don’t use those little sticky traps,” she said.

“What sticky traps?”

“You know, those little open-air boxes that exterminators leave lying around to catch bugs. Lizards and geckos are always getting stuck to them instead of roaches and end up dying a gruesome death, all alone, even though everybody knows geckos are good and lizards eat bugs. The very bugs the sticky traps are supposed to be exterminating.”

On the other end of the phone, I waited patiently for her to finish her story before I started laughing.

“I really don’t care,” I said.

But my friend wanted me to care.

“One time,” she continued, “a friend of mine heard screaming coming from her garage and when she investigated, there was a mouse stuck to one of those traps. She asked her husband to set it free and he said he would, but she listened to the poor little thing screeching all night long. He didn’t get around to going out there until the next morning and when he did, do you know what he found?”

“A dead mouse?”

“No!” she said. She lowered her voice and I could almost hear the screaming violins from Psycho playing in the background. “All he found were its little hands stuck to the trap.”

“Its hands,” I repeated.

“Yes! Isn’t that awful? I mean, it just makes me so uncomfortable to think some poor little mouse is running around in the woods without any hands.”

I couldn’t think of a funnier image myself, but maybe I’m just a sinner and need to repent.

A day or two later, my daughter passed on an unlikely piece of advice from her neighbor. The way to kill gophers, she heard, is to stuff their tunnel entrance with fluffy, white marshmallows. It upsets their digestive tract, she said. And they’ll die, she said. Potentially.

Well, it sounded easier than blowing up my front yard. So, I bought a bag of s’mores-sized mallows which my grandson and I may or may not have indulged in that very afternoon, forcing me to buy a second bag of marshmallows the following day because, as the neighbor told my daughter, “if they smell human scent on the mallows, they won’t eat them.”

Naturally. Rodents got scruples. The poisonous marshmallow should probably be organic, too.

The next day I launched Operation Gopher Buster. Having assimilated all my intel and gathered my stockpile of mallow ammo along with another weapon of mass destruction - a long, wooden dowel from the patio door track - I prayed for courage and launched a limited missile attack. Stabbing into the soft dirt mound near the driveway, I located the entrance to the terrorist’s tunnel and let half a bag of marshmallows rain down on enemy territory.

But I forgot to requisition a shovel. The aerated soil filled the hole as soon as I flicked it away with the half-inch wide pole. Determined to make the plan work as is, I pushed one of the mallows into the general area of the gopher hole and withdrew the dowel rod to repeat the maneuver. A sticky, dirty, puffy square emerged with the dowel, shish kabobbed.

Undeterred, I shoved a second mallow into the ground just like the first and skewered that one, too, followed by a third and a fourth. Now I was angry. The gopher was proving more clever than I first thought, but I was determined he would not make a fool of me. I could do that by myself. I lost my cool, beating the ground and the mallows with my stick, stabbing the candied ammo until they lay helpless in the dirt at my feet.

The tunnel, if not stuffed with marshmallows as planned, was now hidden by marshmallow crème.

Out of breath, I gathered my desecrated dowel rod and the half-empty bag of ammo and headed inside the house. Even if the mission failed, I held out hope that I would at least be able to harvest a crop of marshmallows in time for Halloween’s first campfire.

It’s been two weeks since my sneak attack and tensions seem to have de-escalated in the volatile region. No further dirt mounds have been discovered. No new holes have been seen. Also, no marshmallows have sprouted.

I'm taking no chances, though, just in case he survived a case of food poisoning. We’ll be irrigating next week and as the system of tunnels is flooded with water, I’ll be waiting and watching for signs of the furry little urban guerilla. If he emerges, I’ll be ready for him.

I picked up a box of matches this morning. Pray for my eyebrows.

With thanks to Andrea Garza for permission to use the photo of the criminal seen above who may also possibly be on display in the United States Post Office. The original mug shot can be viewed by following the link below:

Gopher | Andrea Garza | Flickr

Random Acts of Kindness

I have this friend, and I may be using the term a bit loosely, who is . . .  how shall I put this . . . one fry short of a Happy Meal. I’m pretty sure somebody dropped her on her head when she was a baby. There’s just no other explanation for the random acts of kindness she sends my way. Her behavior leaves me dumbfounded, the same way a mother would feel after finding her two-year-old covered head-to-toe in bright pink sludge, happily devouring her favorite lipstick like it was a popsicle. Brain damage. I think my friend has brain damage.

We’ve been friends a really long time which tells you a lot about the lengths I’ll go to when it comes to loyalty. I mean, I pray for her, of course. Somebody has to. I just wish somebody would pray for me whenever we get together. I could use it.

Pam is a first-rate prankster and I, apparently, am her buffoon. For example, she loves to shop, but she is no ordinary shopper. She never buys anything herself. Instead, as we roam around Home Goods together, she drops bizarre items into my cart when I’m not looking. She hopes I won’t notice, not even when we reach the register, and that I’ll actually pay for those things and take them home, eventually realizing her contributions were awesome and that what I most wanted in all the world was an anatomically correct cookie cutter shaped like a man. She thinks I was dropped on my head as a baby, too. And she still owes me five bucks for that disgusting baking implement I never meant to buy.

Once, as we drove to Hobby Lobby, aka Pam’s Promised Land, we stopped to pick up a couple of drinks at Starbucks, which is Nirvana for me. She was ahead of me in the drive-thru and when I reached the window, the somewhat nervous acting barista told me my drink had been paid for by the person in the car ahead of me.

“Oh, that’s so nice,” I replied. “That’s my friend, Pam.”

The barista didn’t smile or nod. She just kept her eyes on me as she handed over the beverage straight-armed and then quickly closed her window. Well, maybe she’s a new hire at Nirvana, I thought. We can’t all be extroverts. I met up with Pam in the Hobby Lobby parking lot and thanked her for paying for my drink.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “I told the barista to be careful when you drove up because you’d just been released from a mental facility.”

I still haven’t returned to that Starbucks.

It’s taken me years, but I finally figured out that the best way to avoid being humiliated in public was to stop shopping with Pamela. It’s not that hard to do since she lives a few hours south of me, yet still, somehow, I was slow to settle on this solution. I think it finally came to me in her favorite craft store, Michael’s, one afternoon. Pam calls me “Red” because I used to pay good money for that hair color which has now gone gray, and I call her “Smalls” because The Sandlot is one of my favorite movies with its plethora of sarcasm. Since Pam has given me ample opportunity to actually lose my mind, I often remind her, “You’re killing me, Smalls.”

We got separated in Michael’s that afternoon, which was a blessing because that meant the only items in my cart were things I had placed there. I didn’t know where she was and that’s how I wanted it. It was not how she wanted it. Suddenly, over the intercom, a woman’s voice broadcast throughout the entire store, “Red, your party is waiting for you at the checkout counter.” Like I was a toddler and had lost my mother. Or like my name is actually "Red."

I abandoned my cart and fled the store, followed closely by Smalls who had no idea what was wrong with her idea.

Reminiscing here about this relationship, I’m starting to get a little itchy, the way you do when you hear the drone of a mosquito flying around your head. Those pesky things don’t hang around because they think you’re fun. It’s a warning that their talent requires a victim.

There’s more. Like the annual Christmas competition we’ve held for the last twenty years to see who can transform last year’s homemade monstrosity into something entirely new and potentially clever while remaining decidedly cheap. Pam is the queen of craftiness in more ways than one and her imagination knows no bounds. But it should. There are laws.

It all began with a massive Christmas ornament I gave her. A gilded frame with a lovely photo of me which I’d turned into a necklace. She wore it in a Starbucks while I stood beside her, frightening yet another barista. The next Christmas she replaced my photo with hers and made it the centerpiece of something best left forgotten. It was the last time one of her Christmas gifts to me even resembled what I’d created the year before. I have proof. There’s an album on my phone of every disturbing present ever received from her. I titled it, “Pam’s Brain.” It’s dark in there.

One year she gave me a Styrofoam hand with a bouquet of poinsettias glued to its painted fingernails, heavily glittered along the base with my name attached in bright pink foam letters. I pulled it out of a Christmas bag while we were seated inside Starbucks. Immediately I was surrounded by a couple of random customers who “ooh”ed and “ahh”ed over it, asking Pam where she’d found it and gushing insanely about its inherent beauty. I was speechless, suspicious that the whole thing was a Tik Tok set-up. When they left, Pam admitted she’d begged them to behave like that while I’d gone off to the restroom. The con artists. They should be ashamed. I hope they got coal in their stockings that year.

A couple of Christmases later, after dismembering my classy rendition of a bird nest where the repurposed sparrow was nestled inside a pair of gifted yellow rubber gloves à la Pam, she created a terrifying caricature that I can only assume was a self-portrait of her inner soul. She used a short, white pedestal for the body with another Styrofoam head glued on top (made up like a super model), the familiar yellow rubber gloves hanging off the side for arms, little rubber baby doll feet, a teeny tiny black hat atop stringy golden strands of hair, and the everlasting bird propped on its shoulder. When I brought it home, it scared my dog. I rescued the bird and threw the rest of the Wednesday Adams wannabe in the trash.

See what I mean? Dark. Very very dark.

The next time she returned the bird to me, she glued it onto a six-foot wicker giraffe equipped with a sign that read, “The Blue Door,” a guide to the casita I live in on my daughter’s property which Amazon drivers can never locate. This gift at first seemed thoughtful. She wanted me to place that long-necked planter in my front yard to help with my deliveries. She said. What I think she really wanted was for my neighbors to believe that I escaped from a mental facility. Her motivation remains a point of contention between us, especially since she became attached to it and named the giraffe Gertrude. I stuck Gertrude in the rear of my garage for the next year where it still drove me to distraction. I gave it back to her the following Christmas in a much-reduced form. I cut off its head and mounted it on a wooden plaque. Her husband is an avid hunter and their home is filled with proof of the deceased. Now she has a head of her own, which is good because I think hers is defective.

By now, you may be thinking I’m being too hard on Pam. She’s just got a good sense of humor, you say. She picks on me because she loves me. I’m too sensitive. Laugh a little, Eula – life is too short. Well, today is my birthday and a few days ago I received a birthday card from Pam.  I thought she was so thoughtful to remember and make sure it arrived here on time. Birthdays are a little harder now that Rob isn’t here to celebrate, too, but friends and family come alongside me. Despite her strange love language, Pam remains a loyal friend to me and her card sat in queue with a couple of others waiting to be opened this morning. I texted her that it had arrived and thanked her for her thoughtfulness. She told me I was welcome.

I should have known.

This morning, also Mother’s Day this year, I treated myself to a Dunkin’ Donut breakfast and iced coffee, brought it home and sat down in my recliner to enjoy while I watched tv. Afterward, I picked up the birthday cards I’d received and began to read them. There was a flowery version from a longtime Toastmaster friend. And a butterfly decorated birthday wish from another sweet friend who lives nearby. And Pam’s. I slid open her envelope and was instantly glitter bombed. Metallic, pink glitter in every size from normal to microscopic exploded from the envelope’s interior, covering my blouse, my hands, my freshly vacuumed floor. Overhead, the ceiling fan joined in the celebration, blowing pink stardust all over the side table and down my jeans. I never even pulled the card out. All of this was just peripheral damage.

I took the card outside—carefully—and stood barefoot on the sidewalk to shake it out, brushing off more sparkles which, on this breezy morning, blew back in my face and decorated my toes. Afterward, the outside of my house matched the inside. I think this is revenge for killing Gertrude, the Blue Door giraffe. Now my house is pink.

I returned to the kitchen and ran water over the card so I could at least read what Pam had written. It was sweet and full of confidence that she'd chosen the right color of glitter. It’s still drying on the counter beside my kitchen sink which is now pink and sparkly, too. And then I sent a photo of my blouse to Pam and thanked her for the birthday glitter which, I told her, went well with my outfit.

“You’re welcome!” she wrote back. “Happy Mother’s Day! Did it get into any food or drink? That was my goal.”

You can’t make this stuff up.

Last year, Pam and her husband moved half an hour south of where they used to live. You would think the extra distance would give me peace of mind. Not so. Not until DOGE makes good on their promise to eliminate the United States Postal Service and protect innocent bystanders like me from devoted friends like Pam.

If only I’d known earlier what’s behind her fascination with low tech terrorism and disturbing Christmas presents. I think I've figured it out.

I think she's an operative for the Taliban.

The pink glitter bomb is what gave it away.

p.s. I love you, Pam. It was a lovely thought. But I still do not regret what happened to Gertrude.

All That Glitters

The thing is, I was a little bored that evening. And kind of depressed. I thought a little retail therapy from the comfort of my easy chair would cheer me up, so forty-five dollars sounded like a steal for something so pretty. And it was, which explains how I got robbed.

Let The Buyer Beware.

Maybe I should get that tattooed on my texting finger.

You know they saw me coming. It’s called Bait and Switch—advertising one thing and swapping it out for something else. It’s not the world’s oldest profession but it’s about as honorable. I’m not excusing myself. Like I said, I was in a funk, which led to online scrolling and the next thing you know, I took the bait hook, line, and sinker. In my defense, their webpage did look professional. I mean, it looked good. And it sounded good. Therefore, I surmised, it must be good.

No. It was not good.

Even though their array of quilts were truly beautiful, I was even more impressed by the stunning 4.86 stars out of 5 they earned, drawn from 421 happy clients. See? I read the reviews. I’m a careful shopper. Also, the description was written in impeccable English, something I’ve learned to check before I click the “Pay” button. Guess I can’t count on that anymore, not with the rise of AI. Finally, like it was a seal of approval, they boasted that their custom pieces were from “an American quilt and patchwork design company” with a mailing address here in the states. Made in America. That’s good, right?

See the previous comment. No. It was not good.

I’m usually a lot more suspicious than you might think, having learned from my many mistakes. Sadly, the pathetic printed replica of a quilt I thought I was ordering was probably the fourth or fifth scam I’ve fallen for in the last four years. Remember those platypus socks I ordered last year? When I complained that the supersized feet were so roomy I could use them to carry groceries, they offered me five bucks if I’d just keep them. I tried to donate them to Goodwill, but they refused to take them and told me people don’t have feet shaped like that. Six! This is the sixth fraud I’ve been victimized by. I forgot about the weird sandals I got in the mail once—wrong style, wrong size. Other than that, they were perfect.

I would say it’s my own fault, considering how I didn’t notice their two full pages of fine print until I went searching for them after a 5” x 8” envelope with my “table runner” arrived in the mail. That’s what I get for not realizing a “design company” might substitute photographs of real quilts in their advertising and cover their butts with the warning that “there may be up to a twenty percent variation in color, pattern, binding, and stitching compared to the sample photos due to the production process.” I mean, seriously. It was just too many words to try to understand.

Possibly it was a math problem. Twenty percent variation in all four parts of their “production process” means the final product is eighty percent different than what was promised. I’d say the carefully crafted piece they sent was perhaps twenty percent of what I expected. Now I get it.

They lied.

So, I complained and now we’re in negotiations via PayPal. The quilt company appreciates my feedback and understands my “concerns about the design and quality of the product” they sold me. But rather than refund my money, “as a token” of their appreciation for my “understanding and patience” they’ve offered me a thirty percent discount on my next purchase.

How stupid do they think I am?

It’s a rhetorical question. Geez.

I’m probably making too much out of this. After all, I’ve ordered a lot of things online that have been okay, especially during the last four years. So what if the suitcases I’ve purchased are better suited to doll clothes than mine? At least they fit in my truck when I travel. And those headphones I just bought for my cellphone? Sure, there’s a bit of a buzz in the background while I’m talking to people, but it’s only on my end. No one else is complaining. I’ll admit I thought I was buying actual sofa pillows that one time, not just empty pillow covers. But after I went to the store and bought pillows to shove inside them, everything worked out fine.

All in all, I think we’ve learned a good lesson here. Read the fine print. Sleep on it before deciding. Fight for your refunds. Don’t fall for the thirty percent good customer discount. Return to brick and mortar shopping. Actual therapy is superior to retail . . . wait. Is that the doorbell?

My Etsy order just arrived!

I’ll get back with you.

In case you're curious, quilted table runner on the left is what was advertised. Photo on the right is for sale by owner. Or for free.

Going Solo

I remember how the mike always shook in my hand. I was a musician, church pianist, choir member, but the only time I felt nervous was when I sang alone. Performing before an audience is different than practicing at home in your kitchen. Especially when it’s Mother’s Day and the lyrics are prophetic.

There are watercolor ponies on my refrigerator door . . . a reminder to us all of how time flies.

The pleasure of watching the children growing is mixed with a bitter cup of knowing

The watercolor ponies will one day ride away.

Wayne Watson’s words still bring tears to my eyes. We were deep in the piles of laundry his song spoke of when I sang the special music that morning. I tried to maintain my composure and hit the notes like my heart wasn’t breaking, but it wasn’t easy reminding a congregation and myself that we are only gifted with our children for a little while.

From the moment they were born, I knew we’d have to let them go live their lives one day, let them follow their dreams, fight their battles, face their heartaches, win their victories. We would watch from the sidelines, holding our breath, praying for them, weeping with them, and celebrating.

But still, we would be sidelined.

Baby, what will we do, when it comes back to me and you? They look a little less like little ones every day.

We were as prepared as possible. We gave the kids a good send off, cut the apron strings, celebrated their freedom (and ours), and looked forward to the next chapter. I thought we were great cheerleaders. I was relieved we were still friends, both with each other and with our grown children and their families. We did it. And when it finally came back to just Rob and me, we kept going.

We still had each other.

But.

There’s always a but.

I don’t remember any songs asking what I’d do when “it comes back” to just me. When my mate for life loses his life. Maybe there’s one out there, but I’ve never heard of it. I’ve never seen a book on marriage, either, giving ten ways to prepare for grief and loss. How depressing. The thought of going solo was so far in the future, there was no reason to think about it.

And now here I am.

Today it’s been four years since Rob took his last breath. Four years since I had to learn how to breathe again. How to keep living without him in my world. It’s hard to believe it’s been that long since he held me in his arms, laughed until he went red in the face, snuggled with his grandbabies, kissed my lips, and told me that he loves me. Four years ago was the last time his children heard his voice and knew they could reach out to him any time they wanted to. Four years ago today he walked into the presence of Jesus and I learned I can’t compete with that.

Left alone on the stage, the echoes of the final verse rang in my ears. “Baby, what will I do when it comes back to me without you?” I knew the poetic answers. I read plenty of them on Hallmark cards. But as the congregation filed out the door of the church, leaving those cards and sentiments to yellow, they returned to their lives while the soloist returned to an empty house.

There’s so much you learn when all the watercolor ponies ride away.

I miss him. I miss him so much words are useless. I’ve hit every level of grief known to man and dozens of others you only discover when you’re face down in a mud puddle made of your own tears. I’ve blamed God. I’ve blamed myself. I’ve blamed doctors and politicians and even Rob. I’ve wished I could enjoy alcohol and, instead, have been forced to settle for overdosing on chocolate. I’ve tried to drive away from the heartache, managing only to put 75,000 miles on my new truck while wearing out two batteries and a set of Michelins. I wore out my dog with my grief until he abandoned me and joined Rob in heaven.

This is hard.

This is really hard.

I’ve been quite public about it, leaving a few people to wonder if I’ve lost either my mind or my faith in Christ. Maybe some in the audience think it’s better not to hold onto the mike if you can’t perform well. But I didn’t write this song. I was just asked to sing it.

So, what is the answer to that long ago question? Surprisingly, Wayne Watson never gave one. And what of my question? What do you do when it comes back to you without the man you love? After all this time, the only thought I have is this. I think you have to learn to sing your own song.

From becoming a bride to being a widow, Jesus has been with me the entire time. Even when I beat my hands against his chest, he held on to me. Even when I called him The God I’m Not Talking To, he never stopped listening to me. Never let me go. Never let me down.

I don’t know why I had to lose Rob when we all love him so much. But if anyone knows what it is to lose and keep losing, it’s God. If anyone knows what it’s like to love and keep loving, it’s Him. He would not give up on me.

I am not the woman I once was. Half of me died four years ago today. But the woman I am becoming is less afraid to stand alone on a stage. And the woman I used to be has learned what it is like to be carried through fire. I thought I would disintegrate if I ever lost Rob, my beloved. And sure enough, I did. But I also survived.

When it came back to just me, Jesus was there.

Really, that’s all I know.

Criminal Intent

I don’t know. I’m beginning to think she’s possessed. Or maybe she has a drinking problem. They bragged to me about her ‘thoughtful intelligence,’  but I’m not buying it. I’ve spent a lot of time watching her work and she is neither thoughtful nor intelligent. At best I’d describe her as an idiot savant and, at worst, simply an idiot.

Yesterday I gave these clear instructions: “Go.”

I removed every obstacle in her way.

I closed doors to areas where she didn’t have the proper clearances.

It was such an easy job, even I could have done it. It could not have been a more straight-forward assignment, but in her defense, I suppose that makes me a slow learner.

Leaving her to her work, I disappeared into my office to write in peace and relative quiet. And then I got hungry. I wandered into the kitchen and glanced around the great room, relieved at the nice job she was doing. Until I looked down and there, at my feet, lay a turd. I mean, it looked like a turd. If I owned a dog. Which I don’t. All I own is an iRobot.

I’d be better off with a dog.

Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry anymore. With a wave of dread, I looked beyond the sofa and there, lying crushed beneath the small table where she’s normally on display, lay my prayer plant. Gutted. Her earthen insides spilled out across the floor from one end to the other in a scene so macabre, its only saving grace was the way the grisly image was confined to being black and pearlite white.

“Oh, no,” I gasped, racing to her side. “What has she done to you?”

I didn’t even have to ask. I knew who was behind this.

Gingerly, I lifted the desecrated shrub from where she’d fallen and assessed the damage. Her leaves were still green. That had to be good. She must still be getting oxygen. Nothing appeared to be broken. She wasn’t leaking any fluid. Still, her potting soil was spread across the LVP flooring all the way to the laundry room, tire tracks telling the entire tragic story. My Calathea Rattlesnake Prayer Plant had been brutalized, and I knew exactly who the culprit was.

From the other side of the room a happy hum floated through the air, and I swear I heard a satisfied little burp.

Roomba. The criminal.

This time I had undisputable evidence. Prayer plants don’t jump off tables to their deaths without some kind of nefarious help. It wouldn’t be spiritual. I could picture the whole incident in my mind. Roomba bashing again and again into the hairpin legs of the little wooden table, relentless, vicious, jealous of the care I occasionally give to an innocent potted plant.

Oh, the humanity.

“Murderer!” I yelled across the great room as Roomba scurried away. “El Diablo!” I followed up, as she bounced off the legs of my piano. “El stupido!” I shouted at the mechanical vacuum who only speaks Spanish. I hurried to the kitchen sink for a damp sponge to clean up the dirty mess as Roomba raced across the room to add insult to injury.

“Oh, no you don’t,” I snarled, my voice falling to levels my children would have recognized as terrifyingly subhuman. It always worked on them, but they have souls. All Roomba has are computer chips and attitude. I grabbed at her handle just before she plowed into the wounded foliage again, aiming her in the opposite direction. She swirled around and took another swipe at the sainted victim of her malevolence. “Cannibal!” I screamed in horror, lunging at her off switch just in the nick of time.

Out of breath, I sank down on my sofa and surveyed the damage. This was war. And I was outnumbered.

I don’t know why I put up with her except that I don’t want to do the vacuuming myself. She’s inept. And she needs ESL training. I mean, if you live and work in this country, you should also speak the language. I need a translator whenever she sucks up one of my drapes and screams at me in her native tongue from across the house. I don’t know what she’s yelling about—I never took high school Spanish. I studied French.

I’m in over my head here. I’ve talked to other Roomba owners and I think, in general, it’s obvious we need to form a support group. One man told me his iRobot walked right off the job without explanation, drove into its micro-garage and never worked again. No coaxing or plea agreements could get it to come out. There’s another story gone viral about a Roomba that intentionally ran over a pile of fresh dog poo and, the next morning, the poor owner woke up to what he could only describe as a poopocalypse.

I’ve heard enough. I’ve seen enough. I don’t need any more evidence or dire warnings. I’m not going to be held hostage to a rotund robot who is an obvious terrorist any longer. I hate to do it but the jig is up. My plants have given me an ultimatum—it’s them or her.

It’s not even a contest. I bought a basic iRobot model who came with glowing reviews written by residents of Mexico praising her fondness for animal fur. Maybe she’s been yelling at me the whole time because I don’t have any dog hair around for her to eat. Something got lost in translation and I think it was the word for “houseplant.”

It doesn’t matter anymore. Roomba has been outed by my surviving potted plants, three to one, and they want her gone. They even have a message for her. They're tired of being depotted. Time for her to be deported. 

Hasta la vista, baby.

The Best Christmas Present Ever

It was either a spectacular joke or potentially a gift that my precious Kentucky grandbabies pooled together with hard-earned cash to send to their YaYa for Christmas. Either way, I was in quite a pickle when the time came to thank them for the necklace I’d just unwrapped. It was not made of macaroni. Or pipecleaners. Nor was it last year’s dried out Play-Doh formed in childish delight into something once resembling a heart. 

I took a picture of the two-pound monstrosity and sent it to my daughter. “Look what Lee and Jess sent me in their Christmas box,” I texted. “I don’t know what to think. What do I tell them when we Facetime later this morning?”

Her carefully worded answer was classic.

“Well,” she wrote, taking her time before texting back, “you could try something like, “It’s really sparkly!” Her own grandmother would be proud.

“How very Mam-ish of you,” I replied.

My mother-in-law, who we call “Mam,” turned 91 last month. While she’s been accused of having lost her filter, she clearly has not lost her mind or her health. Every time I hear what a good checkup she’s just had at the doctor’s office, I remind her that I’ve made her the beneficiary of my will. She loves that.

The truth is, she does know how to be tactful. For example, whenever she’s in the presence of a beaming young mother holding her not-yet-attractive newborn, Mam knows just the right thing to say. “My, what a healthy looking baby!” she gushes. It works every time.

My daughter’s carefully worded appreciation was clearly genetic. On her father’s side.

I looked all over the back of the cardboard holding this lime green work of art, but there were no Christmas messages or explanations. Not even any directions or health warnings about whatever questionable content the Chinese jewelry was made of. I can’t begin to tell you how confused I was by the gift I held. Semi-circular and connected nose to tail with heavy links of faux-gold, I was the proud owner of a bold statement piece certain to set off metal detectors if I dared wearing it through airport security. For once, I wouldn’t mind relinquishing a prized possession into the hands of the TSA. After all, they asked for it.

My computer screen lit up. It was time. I had to tread carefully. With my scrambled intuition on high alert, I pasted a delighted look on my face and answered the Christmas call from my son. He was alone in his office. Laughing. It didn’t take long to sort out the truth while the rest of his family remained in the other room, unaware.

“Hold on,” I told him, feeling my shoulders relax as I exhaled. “I’ll go put it on.”

I came back with the giant salamander hanging heavily across my ample bosom. The fake rhinestones covering its body were blinding, its fiery red eyes glowed demonic.

"Hang on a sec," my son sputtered, nearly asphyxiated by his own howls of laughter. I drummed my fingers on the desk and waited while he gathered his composure. There’s nothing better than being the butt of a good joke. I’ve heard.

At last, he spit out the story of his wife’s discovery of the priceless piece on Temu and how she couldn’t stop laughing over the computer image.

“Who can we give it to?” she giggled, clicking the “Purchase” button on her smart phone. “I know! Your mom!” she shrieked. “And we won’t include any explanation!”

I’d been set up.

Whatever happened next, she had it coming.

Lee shielded the screen on his laptop while he carried it into the dining room and called the family to gather around for our Christmas phone call. I sat demurely in front of the camera on my computer, saying nothing, wearing that hideous costume jewelry around my neck and trying to keep my back straight under its weight. Good thing I’ve been going to Pilates for two years. A strong core is key.

The grandchildren gathered, distracted by the gifts I’d sent still waiting to be opened on their end of the continent, oblivious of my attire. Jessica was the last to join the party, settling in with her famous smile and good nature, acting like nothing untoward was happening on the screen in front of her . . . until . . .

Her eyes bugged out and she buried her face in her hands in hysterics.

It worked. She was ashamed of herself.

“Oh my gosh!” she exclaimed, wiping tears from her eyes. “That’s the funniest thing I ever saw!”

It didn’t work. She was unrepentant.

Her Southern accent kicked in like she was channeling Paula Deene, and the story of her proud purchase spilled out all over their dining room table. She knew what she’d done. She knew who to target. She knew the moment I saw it I’d be paralyzed somewhere between guilt and humiliation—guilt about hating it and humiliation if I had to wear it in public and pretend I loved it just like I’ve done with every macaroni necklace I’ve ever owned.

It was the best Christmas present she’d ever given herself. It reminded me of the fairy tale about the princess who had to prove she was royal by sleeping on a tower of mattresses that, unknown to her, concealed a princess-brutalizing green pea beneath them all. Another classic set up. Only in my case, a woman who is a survivor of Southern ancestors, no matter how much I try to break free from my people pleasing roots, all it takes is a tacky gift from relatives and suddenly I’m lying again about how much I love it. Western born, I am still a Southern girl deep down.

Bless my little pea-pickin’ heart.

When the call and the laughter ended, I took a screen shot of myself wearing the heavy Asian idol and sent it to my daughter with this short message:

“It was a joke.”

She wrote back with the same sense of relief I felt at not being forced to Mam-ify the whole thing.

“Thank God,” she texted.

So now it sits here on my desk, wrapping my little stuffed elephant in its gaudy embrace. I’d feel sorry for him but the look of betrayal in his eyes makes me laugh.

I don’t know what he’s got to complain about. At least it’s not made of macaroni.

Peek-A-Boo

The neighbors have a new dog.  A mid-sized brindle who loves to chase the chickens all around the pasture, rounding them up like runaway peas on a toddler’s plate. She’s having a ball. Them, not so much. They seem confused by the interloper in their backyard. After all, they were there first. By all rights, they should be chasing the dog, but they haven’t figured that out yet.

I’ve watched this track and field phenomena play out most afternoons since the pup, Sadie, arrived, and I have some thoughts about it. And, just to be clear, I am not stalking my neighbors. It’s just that my desk faces a window that looks out at their pasture. I’m a curious onlooker. A city girl who always wanted to be a farmer. It’s been educational. For example, from everything I can see from my padded office chair, I’ve learned that I’m way too lazy to follow my country girl dreams.

The first time I noticed Sadie living out her cattle dog instincts, I thought she escaped the backyard and had gone rogue in the family’s pasture. Standing on my tippy toes at the dining room window—still not stalking, just concerned—I watched with alarm to see if she was sorting through the feathered herd in search of just the right snack. I’ve heard of family dogs going dark like that. One minute they’re scarfing up Kibble ‘n Bits, and the next they’ve got soggy feathers in their teeth. Eeww.

But this happy herder didn’t plan on any takedowns. Whether the chickens outran her or she simply respects social distancing rules, no animals were harmed in the making of this production.  I think she just gets her kicks watching the troops run away while she barks orders at them like a Marine corporal at bootcamp.

I don’t know but I’ve been told

Chickens think that dogs are trolls

I don’t know but it’s been said

Happy dogs are chicken fed

Which, of course, is just good-natured heckling between farm animals. I know this because I never once saw a feather fly during the relays across the street while I was definitely not stalking anyone from my office or dining room windows.

It’s just good clean fun going on over there. But it really made me wonder about the motivation of chickens. I haven’t actually counted the flock, but a random guess puts it at roughly eleven, give or take. Because you can’t be that accurate without binoculars which, of course, would be ridiculous and certainly proof of stalking.

Let’s just round that number up. There are, perhaps, a dozen full grown chickens in the pasture across the street and only one Sadie. That means the chickens outnumber the cattle dog twelve to one. Why haven’t they unionized? Why are they letting one furry individual bully them like that, scattering them across the pasture like a bowling alley strike? After all, there’s strength in numbers. All they have to do is link wings and take a stand. Like a wall of bowling pins.

Oh. Sadie would probably love that.

I’ve spent a lot of time observing farm animals in the three years since I arrived at the Brady Rehabilitation Ranch, much of it from the other side of my house which backs up to my daughter’s pasture. And I’ve come to this conclusion: animals are much like people but with better instincts. They know their place in the world, and they don’t demand a different position in life than the one they were assigned at birth. Once a chicken, always a chicken. Once a pig, always a pig. Once a sheep, always . . . you get my drift. And when a new resident shows up in the pasture, first there is confrontation and then there is acceptance.

Life could be so much simpler for humans if we learned from our feathered friends. Just let chickens be chicken and let dogs rule the roost. So to speak.

Well, I never claimed to be a philosopher. I’m just a writer surrounded by other people’s pastures trying to make sense out of life. I’m honestly astonished at the variety of animals which can inhabit a quarter acre piece of land without killing one another. They tolerate each other’s differences, find their pecking order, run away when they don’t feel like fighting, and manage to find enough to eat without turning on each other.

Like I said, people could learn a lot from chickens. You don’t even need to use binoculars. Which I definitely don't have.

With gratitude to Howard J for permission to use the hysterical caricature seen above. The original can be viewed by following this link: InkTober Day 5: Binoculars | That’s a northern peekaboo bird… | Flickr

Holding On

“I still cry every day,” I told her, nearly four years down the road she’s just begun. Any morning the sun coaxes my eyes to open and I don’t immediately soak my pillow feels like a gift. A reminder of normalcy, whatever that used to be. 

It’s just another day on my own when he was supposed to be here, kissing me good morning. Difficult to face. But I have to get up. Nature calls. A few minutes later, I return to my side of the bed, which is whatever side I want now. My back hurts and I reach for the massage gun because he’s not here to rub sore muscles for me. He’s not here to grab my hand and pull me to my feet, wrap his arms around me and tell me, “It ain’t nothin’ but a thang.”

Empathy might not have been his strong suit.

The thought brings a smile and the tears stop. I do some stretches, let out a big sigh, and glance at the picture window across the room, knowing that opening the blinds will let in sunshine’s serotonin. I depend on it now, more than a pluviophile like myself would have believed. But first, I have to will myself to walk across the room to the window.

It takes more inner strength than I’d have ever thought possible.

Every morning begins this way. Tears that have woven stories into my dreams spill out in the daylight. He’s nearly always in my dreams in some fashion. Rarely the main character, just part of the story, taken for granted the way we often do in marriage. There’s no reason to feel bad about that. No reason to count down the days of matrimony in fear. Head in the sand, I just assumed we’d grow very old together and not just a little bit old before we said goodbye. I feel lucky, a little tiny bit. Many widows I’ve met never dream of their husbands.

Feet on the floor. “You can do it,” I tell myself. “Just stand up.” It sounds so easy. Nothing is easy anymore. Finding my way in the dark isn’t easy or desirable. What little girl does a ballerina spin and announces, “When I grow up, I want to be a widow!” It’s dark humor but it does what I need it to do. He taught me about laughing at the dark.

One more sigh. Another anemic surge of determination. Face the day. You can do this. Get moving and things will get better. I'd lay down and stay in bed but that’s not who I am. It wouldn’t help. I just need a little extra . . . hope.

Across the room on a bookshelf in the corner is framed word art my granddaughter created for me three years ago. It’s on a specific shelf for this specific reason: it lies exactly in my line of sight when I sit on the side of the bed each day and wonder how on earth I’ve survived this long. I forget it’s there every morning during this monotonous routine, but the genius of the shelf where I placed it proves itself every single time.

Every time the tears start up again. Every time I miss the smell of his coffee in the other room. Every time I wonder where I find the strength to face another day without him to talk with, explore the world with, laugh and fight and make up with. Every.Day. My eyes land, like muscle memory, on that framed reminder that waits on the bookshelf for me.

I will not

I will not

I will not,

In any degree, LEAVE YOU HELPLESS.

Nor forsake you NOR let you down,

Nor relax my hold on you!

ASSUREDLY NOT!

            ~Hebrews 13:5

 

This is the secret of survival for me. This is the fountain of strength I draw from when I see how weak and broken I am. It’s not The Universe that has my back, lovely and remarkable as it is. A thing cannot love me. A Person can love me. A Person can hold me in the dark when I can’t see a thing. When I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing here anymore.

My granddaughter’s artistic pen highlighted those three repeated words in differing scripts for emphasis, the same reason God spoke them that way.

I will not

I will not

I will not

He will not leave me helpless.

He will not let me down.

He will not relax His hold on me no matter how much I blame Him or accuse Him or beat my hands against His chest.

He will not. He loves me that much. Unconditionally.

Allie attached a smaller note that I tucked into the corner of the frame, another favorite reminder to me. “You’ve got this,” she added. I love that phrase and have gained courage many times reading it.

But the truth that keeps me upright, moving forward down this road I never wanted to travel is that God’s got me. And he made it as clear as possible that He’s not letting me go.

On my feet at last, I walk to the window and open the blinds.

Hello, sunshine.