MY HUSBAND HAS TAKEN UP TREE PLANTING Won honorable Mention at HumorPress.com

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I Hate My Husband's Chewed Gum!

I won honorable mention in a humor writing contest for my piece I HATE MY HUSBAND'S CHEWED GUM!http://humorpress.com/Results/Essays-2011_02-03/c-HonMens/Essay-2011_02-03-HonorableMentions.htm#2

Possessed by the Daredevil

     The Kid learned to ride a two-wheeler, and in the first week of practicing his new skill, he rode out in front of a car. Twice!

    I need to confess something. I am not a young mom. I did the Hollywood starlet thing. I gave birth to The Kid when I was in my “new twenties.” And while the mental image that I have of myself may be new, my nerves are not. My poor old nerves are frazzled from four-plus decades of experience. And, two days ago, after The Kid's second near miss with a minivan, they reared their ugly neurons.

   

      I ran down the street, hands in the air, screaming like a banshee while all the neighbors stood gape mouthed in their front yards. I yanked The Kid off his bike, and then dragged them both home.

    My first instinct was to throw the damn bike in the trash, but I realized that would be selfishly witchy of me, so I took a different approach, a more sensible one. Bound and determined to teach The Kid the rules of the road by example, I pulled my rusty ten-speed out of the garage.

     “Follow me,” I said.

      Surprisingly, The Kid listened for once, and the ride went quite well. We were on the way home, when from a peripheral glace, I spied the dirt trails near the power lines.

    

    “Come on Kid, we’re going on four-wheeling.” I called out.

   

    The Kid and I had a blast! In fact, The Kid had such a jolly time, the next day, he begged me to take him on another “fun” bike ride.  

    Recently, a dear old friend reminded me that as a child, I was the neighborhood purveyor of fun. And now--sniff--my eight-year-old kid wanted to go biking with me. The idea of being a "fun mom," a "cool mom," swam in my head, and my chest swelled with pride. I wiped a happy tear from my cheek, ran to the garage, grabbed my bike, and yelled, “Come on, Kid! Let's go!” 

     The two of us happily rode off toward the four-wheeler trails.

     We chose the exact route as the day before, but towards the end of the trail, rather than turn right, The Kid requested to go straight. Being in an adventurous frame of mind, I agreed. But what awaited us at was more challenging than anything else we had encountered. At the end of the trail was a six-foot by six-foot ditch. It looked steep, but not impossible to navigate.  My inner-daredevil possessed me, and I said, “Kid, let’s do it.”

6ft deep. 

     The Kid went first.  I plunged in after him, but something went terribly wrong. On the way up, the Kid tipped over. I hit the hand brakes, and the next thing I knew I on the ground lying on top of the handlebars, the rear wheel of my bike up in the air.

     After I realized what had happened, I pushed my bike off me, and then hopped up to make sure The Kid wasn't hurt. He wasn't. In fact, he was laughing at me. Next, I looked around to make sure no one saw what happened. When you are my age and fall down, people become overly concerned, making such incidents even more embarrassing. Fortunately, this time, The Kid and I were alone. I quickly pulled The Kid’s bike from the ditch, hopped back on mine, and the two of us rode off into the sunset.

     (Today, I have a slight limp, two black and blue goose eggs on my thighs, and a pedal-bruise on my shin, and thankfully, I don’t have to bend my wrist to type.)

     But even if I could have a “do over” of yesterday, I wouldn’t.

    

    My kid learned to navigate over small hills, wheel through tire tracks, and jump mud puddles. The twinkle in his eyes and ear-to-ear grin after each new accomplishment was worth a few minor injuries any day.

     I also learned something about myself that I deem to be important. This old, gray nag maybe ain't what she used to be, but she still has guts.

© 2010-2011 Each Head Is A World - All Rights Reserved

MY HUSBAND HAS TAKEN UP TREE PLANTING

     I didn't intended to write again until next month as I am crushed under the massive weight of my many different projects; however, my husband/nemesis has struck again, and I can't help myself.

      My dilemma began last Monday afternoon when my husband returned home from Lowes with three or four fruit trees in the back of his truck. For the last few evenings he has been hard at work in the backyard digging holes. Now, I am not complaining about this, because trees are good, and I'm delighted that he has been occupied and out of my hair. But last night--given his track record--when my husband grabbed a shovel and said, “one more to plant,” I should have known my delight was about to come to a screeching halt.

     After about an hour of absence he stuck his head in the door and called out for a glass of water, which I promptly readied, ice and all, good spouse that I am, and then I went outside to hand deliver his  drink. I don’t know what possessed me to go out the front door, when I presumed him to be planting in the back, maybe it was some kind of six-sense, or maybe it was some strange kind of foreboding, but as soon as I crossed the threshold, I saw my husband's head bobbing up and down on the other side of my car. I scurried across the lawn, hand over my mouth, and there, four feet from the driveway, was a hole.

     “What are you doing?” I asked in my not so nice wife voice.

A FULL SIZED APPLE TREE

     “I’m planting an apple tree,” he responded. His glance never veered from the hole.

      I took a deep breath, and calmly said, “You can’t plant an apple tree there. Apple trees grow huge. We’ll have rotting apples dropping all over the neighbors yard, our driveway, and my car.”

     I was sure my logic would persuade him to move it because even a squirrel brain could figure that a tree that grows between 12 and 20 feet high and bears fruit does not belong next to the driveway, but my husband kept digging and said, “Don’t worry about it. When the tree gets that big, and if it produces apples, then will talk.”

     I couldn’t believe my ears. “Stop. That tree will have to come down in a few years. We have a large backyard. Plant it there."
      My husband kept digging.
   "I know you're not stupid. (Wink, wink.)  Don't plant the tree there!” I screamed. Loudly!

    “The tree stays,” he growled in his deep alpha voice, and I knew he meant it. Then he looked up from the ground and said, “Go back in the house. I can deal with your mental illness inside, but not outside in front of all neighbors.”

      Why I thought I could reason with someone whose frontal lobe is so obviously broken is beyond me. I had to think of another way, a more clever way to get though to him. Although extremely appealing, removing my husband, over a tree, would prove too costly, and possibly time consuming. And a bout of fisticuffs with a 230-pound gorilla would most likely prove deadly--to me. So, with "my mental illness" in full swing, I marched back into the house and Googled, “what kind of soil will kill an apple tree?” 

     I feel bad for the little tree, really I do, but it's either my car and my sanity, or it. And today, I'm headed to Lowes to buy some lime, hide it under the top layer of soil, and pray for root rot. It's going to be a slow process, so it's not too late to stop me if you have any other suggestions.




© 2010-2011 Each Head Is A World - All Rights Reserved

MY BRIGHT IDEA (GAYLE AND THE NOOSE)

KER-KNOCKERS

    I’m going to take you back to a time when kids were kids. There were no cable channels, VCR’s, or in-home video games available, so we had to find other means of entertainment.We played with Ker-knockers—two heavy acrylic, golf ball sized balls on string with a ring in the middle. The object was to use momentum to get them to clack together—not only were they obnoxiously loud, but oh, the bruises we sported on our arms, not to mention, foreheads. And bike riding, no one ever thought of wearing a helmet back then. We’d play fun games on our bikes, like: “Who Can Ride Down The Hill The Fastest and Stop the Closest to the Garage Door Without Hitting It?” And, you know what, the large majority of us lived. That being said; let me get on with my story.

     

    It was summer of 1970, and I was almost eleven. One Saturday afternoon, I talked my parents into allowing me to stay home  while they went furniture shopping. It was my first time home alone without a sitter, so it took some convincing, but eventually they agreed under the following conditions: I was not to go outside, and no one was allowed in. 

    

    “Remember Susan,” my mother threatened. “No one had better come through the front, or the back door, while we are away. And, under no circumstances are you to open either door for anyone. Do you understand?”

    

       I swung my head up and down, and then happily waved goodbye to my family as they drove off.

     Proud of myself, and feeling quite mature, I went inside as  promised, and locked the door. I fixed myself a glass of Coke and went upstairs to watch an episode of The Flintstones on the portable TV in the den. I was behaving quite well until the doorbell rang, and tossed a large fly into the ointment.  Remembering I was not supposed to open the door, I ran to my room, which opened directly onto our wrought iron balcony, and I hung my head over the railing.

Gayle and me. (I'm the one with the red shoes)

      “Who’s there,” I yelled.

     

    My best friend Gayle hopped down off the porch and hollered, “It’s me! Can you come out and play?”

    

    “Sorry. My parents are gone, and I’m not allowed to go out and no one is allowed come in," I informed her.

      

     Her face fell, and then her chin drooped to her chest. She looked so gosh darn sad it tore at my heartstrings. I just had to find a way for her to come in and play. I just had to. (Now, what my mother failed to realize was that because she specified which thresholds were not to be crossed, her edict was left open to interpretation by my inventive, preteen mind.) The gears of logic began to turn in my brain.

     

     “Wait right there a minute. I’ve got an idea,” I said.

     

     I flew through the balcony door back into my bedroom, wheeled down the first flight stairs, rounded the corner in to the kitchen and then down the second flight of stairs into the basement. I ran straight towards my dad’s workbench and grabbed a thick rope that was hanging on the wall nearby. This was my dad’s special rope. It was a three-strand fiber braided rope, about one-half inch thick and incredibly strong. I stuck my arm though the middle and hung it over my shoulder, and then galloped up to the first floor, and then on to the second and back out onto the balcony.

     

     “I've got good news. My mom said no one could come in the front door or the back door, but she didn’t say anything about the balcony doors.”

      

    Then,  I ran back into my room on the South side of the house and looped the rope around my bedpost and then fed the rope over the side of the balcony on the North side of the house. Since my friend Gayle was never one to pass up a brilliant idea, I didn’t have to ask her twice to tie the rope first around her left leg, then around her right leg, then under her butt, and around her waist, and finally to back on to the hanging rope to form a harness/noose.

     

Click on the picture for a clearer view of the red diagram

     Once she was secure, I started my laborious walk towards her. At first, her weight proved too cumbersome, and my bed slid across the room. But once it crashed into the wall, it made a great anchor. Then I huffed and I puffed and I pulled and I tugged until  Gayle’s feet began to leave the ground. 

     

     The following three lines of dialog are  though my sister's eyes as she remembers it. 

  

    “I will never forget that day. We pulled up to the driveway and saw Gayle about four feet off the ground, dangling from a rope.”

     

     “Oh, my God!” Mom screamed.

   

     “Great Caesars Ghost! What in the hell is Susan up to now?” Dad screamed.

    

    I froze as I saw my parent's car pull into the driveway. Dad slammed on the brakes and  Mom flew out the car and grabbed onto Gayle.  “Let her down right this instant! What in the world were you thinking?” she scolded.

    

    I held my head over the balcony sideways and then threw her words back at her. “But Mom, you only said that no one could come in though the front and back doors. You never said anything about the balcony doors.”

    

    Mom was too flabbergasted to speak.

    Once Gayle was safely on the ground, Mom ordered me to come down from the balcony.  I crawled over my bed that was butted up against the balcony doorway, crept out of the house onto the front porch with my shoulders slumped and my head down and then slowly, I began the funeral march toward my mother. I stopped in front of her just outside of spanking distance and looked her in the eye. She glared at me and opened her mouth to speak. 
    I cringed. 
    Gayle turned white as chalk. 
    But instead of bawling us out, her mouth twisted into a wry grin and she said,“Why don’t you and Gayle go to her house and play for a while?” 

© 2010-2011 Each Head Is A World - All Rights Reserved

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I am honored to report that my story HAVE YOU EVER EATEN GOAT? won honorable mention at HumorPress.com

I Hate My Husband's Chewed Gum!

                  

     I need to vent. For twelve long years, my husband and part-time nemesis, has left chewed gum in odd places around the house. I’ve found gum stuck (a) on the bottom of my dinner plates, (b) on the margarine container lid, (c) on the bathroom sink, (d) on the napkin holder, (e) on a magazine in the living room, and finally (f) on the kitchen counter atop a paper towel, which for some reason, it remained over night.

    Not only am I grossed out by this unsanitary behavior, I’m baffled as to why a middle-aged man feels the need to save chewed gum.

    In downtown Charleston, we have a wooden telephone pole designated especially for this purpose. Everyone, tourists included, sticks his or her gum to the pole. My husband walks past it as if it’s invisible and then sticks his gum to a dinner spoon at the Red Lobster.

     If all this sounds disgusting, it was, and is, but what happened at our son’s basketball practice was the gum d'état.

    At 4:55 PM, my husband called my cell phone, frantic. “We’re out of peanuts. Stop by the store and buy some. I will pick up little Johnny from the daycare and bring him to practice. He needs to eat and he won’t eat bread in my truck.”

   Why our son won’t eat bread in the truck is long story, so I’ll save it and continue.

   My husband is a heath-nut who dances to the tune of his own ideas about what’s healthy. According to him, all anyone needs to survive is peanuts and bread, and my son will fall ill and die if he doesn’t eat either before basketball practice.

    Anyway, I met him outside the gym, jar of peanuts in hand. My son and he sat in his trunk and munched away while I waited. When they were finished, my hubby passed me the half-full jar, and the lid and said, “Hang on to this for me.”

      I obliged and then placed the lid on the jar and twisted, but it balked. When I flipped it over to see what the hold up was, I spied chewed gum smashed to the threads.

    I glared at my husband. “Why in the world would you stick your gum to the lid of the peanut jar?”

    He ignored me and walked away as if I were the stupid one.

    I calmly removed the gum with a Kleenex and I stashed it in my purse for later.

    After we returned home, I found a more appropriate place for the chewed gum—in the crotch of a pair of my husband’s tighty-whites.

     Let him sit and chew on that one for a while!