Archive for June, 2012

They’re like uninvited guests. They don’t know you pulled the welcome mat in before they arrived. Uninvited, they come into your house and start following you around. They follow you into the bathroom, you shoe them away. They follow you to the kitchen table, you shoe them away. They don’t get the hint. You use a fly-swatter or rolled up newspaper to eliminate these unwanted guests, otherwise known as flies and bees. If you’re lucky you can get rid of them by opening a door or window.

I’m not always so lucky when driving in a car. The other day a fly flew into my car. He landed on my steering wheel and taunted me by sticking his tongue out. (I’m not sure flies have tongues, but let’s go with it for the sake of this ridiculous and absurd column.)

It danced along to the music blaring from my radio. It provoked me like an older brother when it landed on my nose and laughed (again, I don’t know if flies laugh, but, let’s go with it.) It teased me by pretending it was going to fly out the window, and then turning around and shaking his head no (must I say it again? “Let’s go with it.”) Even though flies are annoying they don’t scare me as much as bees.

Yesterday, when I got in my car a bee followed. It was a hugh, aggressive looking bee (then again they all look aggressive with that stinger.) I jumped out, thinking he would follow, he did not. That was rude. I opened all four doors and waited – nothing. I tried coaxing him out by opening the jar of honey I keep in my trunk for such emergencies (again… go with it.) When he flew out I jumped in. Bugs are just like uninvited guests, sometimes they have to be told when it’s time to go.


What kind of bees make milk?




Jenna Marbles

We bought new locks for all the doors in our house. They’re rather tricky in that if you forget to turn the lock on the doorknob before you go out, and then close the door behind you, you’re locked out. So far, I’ve been locked out twice. The first time I banged on the door and my husband let me in, after he finished eating his pizza. The second time I had my cell phone on me so I called the house. After twenty minutes my husband let me in. While I waited to be let in I plotted my revenge.

Yesterday, my husband went to the garage, closed the door behind him and locked himself out. He went around to the front and knocked on the door. My daughter, who heard the knocking, told me someone was knocking on the door. (We didn’t know it was my husband as we thought he was in the house.) Since I was in the middle of getting dressed I told my daughter, “Go tell your father.” She searches the inside of the house for him, does not see him, and decides to check out the garage. She opens the door. She closes the door behind her, locking herself out. (The acorn doesn’t fall from the tree.) Now two people are locked out. She walks to the front door, sees her father and asks if he knew who was knocking at the door. He screams it was him. Together they bang on the door. It’s like a ‘Family Circus’ cartoon where the mother sends Jeffy out to look for Dolly and then P.J. out to look for the first two and …so on …and so on.

I hear the banging and look out the window (I don’t want to let just anybody in.) I see it’s my family and start to rush to the door to let them in, but stop myself…why should I rush? He didn’t hurry to let me in. So, casually I apply lipstick; it never hurts to look good when cleaning the toilet. I spray on perfume; who knows, by the time I get to the door there maybe a third party. I check my hair and have a twinge of guilt for switching stylists, but this one works wonders. I pop a breath mint in my mouth. I open the door, stand back to make way for my daughter, husband and the revenge I just served up.


“I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.”

Virginia Woolf

I was circling the parking lot looking for a spot. When I saw a woman get in her car I thought – great, she’ll get in and get out. She got in. She did not pull out. First she applied lipstick. Then she brushed her hair. Next she started talking on her phone – to everybody she knew. She stopped talking and proceeded to tweet or text – I don’t know, nor cared; I just wanted her to leave. Finally she fiddled with herGPSand turned on the car. I was going to give her a standing ovation, but knowing her she’d get out of her car to take a bow, wasting more time. She shuts the car off. She gets out. She opens the trunk and removes a bag. She removes a bag of candy. She opens it and removes a hard, wrapped candy. Obviously the candy is stuck to the wrapper as I see her struggle with it. Finally, she wins the struggle and pops it in her mouth. She turns on the radio and scans all the stations, including satellite. She grabs a pile of CD’s and riffles through them. She picks one (wouldn’t have been my choice) and slides it in. She adjusts her mirrors. She adjusts her mirrors? Why would she need to adjust them? Wasn’t she the one who drove here?

She starts the engine. She puts the car in gear. She checks her mirrors (that she just adjusted) and starts backing up. She stops. What’s wrong? Why is she stopping? She picks up her phone and starts talking again. She pulls back in. I can’t believe I get the only person in the free world who doesn’t practice distracted driving. I can’t believe I waited for a spot I didn’t get.

Through my tears I see a mother pushing a baby and filled shopping cart. I race over to her car and wait while she unloads the cart and snaps the baby in the car seat. She’s smiling and cooing at her baby as she’s backing out. I’m smiling to myself, in anticipation of a spot. Oh no, her expression changes from happy to frantic. She stops backing up and pulls back into the spot. She turns the car off, gets out, removes the baby from its seat, sits holding the baby in the backseat and starts breastfeeding.NOW? The kid gets hungry now? Couldn’t he wait? I’m hungry! I’ve been hungry for the past hour I’ve been looking for a spot.

I decide to feed my hunger and go get something to eat. I pull into the parking lot. I drive around looking for a spot. I see a man get in a car….


“When I get real bored, I like to drive downtown and get a great parking spot, then sit in my car and count how many people ask me if I’m leaving.”

Stephen Wright

A restaurant table has to do with as they in real estate, “Location, location, location.” At one restaurant customers were eating Alfresco – prime real estate, until the heavens opened up and it started to rain; then it became a bad location. The patio diners quickly vacated their tables and dashed inside holding plates and drinks. These people wound up by my table (a small but nice piece of property) next to the front door. When the crowds came and clustered around my table, eyeballing my food, I realized my neighborhood went from quaint and quiet to loud and undesirable. I was to close for comfort to my neighbor. The property value dropped.

At a second restaurant we were seated in the back, next to the kitchen. Every time the dishwasher was opened or closed it vibrated against the wall, giving the impression a freight train was going by. A pretty neighborhood with bad location equals low property value.

I’ve sat at tables smack dab in the middle of foot traffic and was constantly bumped by wait staff and customers walking by. Busy intersection = low property value. You walk out your door and get hit by a car. Nobody would buy a house in such a neighborhood; at least anybody with kids. You need a family neighborhood for kids.

I’ve sat in the family neighborhood of a restaurant when my kids were small. This neighborhood includes tables with crying babies, tables with quiet kids and loud kids. As you’re being escorted to the family section of the restaurant you’re mentally calculating the distance from your table to the rest rooms. When my kids were small any table located next to the bathrooms was a good table. I didn’t care if it was a noisy neighborhood or a quiet neighborhood; if it was located next to the bathroom it was the right neighborhood.  High property value.

When I was young my mother used to cut my bangs. You could tell. I don’t know why she did since she was not a hairdresser or good at cutting hair. In fact, she was awful. She would start out with the intention of snipping ‘just a smidge.’ She would snip, stand back and announce, “No good. I gotta cut more. They’re uneven.  When she was done, she’d step back, look, sigh and say, “Good enough, they’ll grow back.” It was never great; just good enough. I went through my entire childhood thinking I wasn’t great, but, good enough.

Having grown up with my mother I refrained myself from cutting my kids hair. I knew better. I never cut anything to make it even, until recently. I bought a pair of pajama shorts that were a bit to long for me. While looking at the shorts I surprised myself by unexpectedly quoting the familiar line, “I’ll just snip a smidge.” I looked around. Where did that come from? That quote was packed and stored in the recesses of my mind.

Next thing I know, scissors in hand I’m sniping a smidge. I cut. I cut some more. I end up with a bikini bottom. I don’t want to wear a bikini to bed. I know! I’ll cut my own bangs to distract from the bikini. It’ll be good enough.


“Life is an endless struggle full of frustrations and challenges, but eventually you find a hair stylist you like.” Anonymous