Things that go "crawl" in the night.

“Hello. My name is Rachel Vidoni, and I’m a Germ-A-Phobic.” I thought introductions were necessary here, in case you’re new to my blog or simply need reminding of my neurosis when it comes to all things germy. In fact, if you also belong to this particular support group, you might want to stop reading right now. Put your hands over your eyes and hit the red x up there in the corner. Tune in when I post another blog.

I also understand if, after reading this, you decide you don’t want to know me anymore. Turn in the friendship card. Cancel our coffee date. I don’t blame you.

One of my worst parental fears has come true; I met my neurotic phobia “head-on” if you will, last Saturday morning, when peering through my child’s hair, I found:

The “L” Word.

Yes, the modern day form of Leprosy, those nasty little crawlers that put the fear of God in the hearts of parents everywhere. My poor child was crying (who wouldn’t) and it was one of those moments where I absolutely, positively, had to be the adult lest I scar my child for life.
“You have lice.” I calmly said. “Dad is going out to buy some shampoo.” My child was freaked out, but my reassurance was downright medical. “It’s no big deal. We’ll take care of it, and you’ll be fine.”

At that point I instructed my child to stay in the bathroom (and remain there for hours…) while I slipped into the hallway, gagged, jumped up and down in disgust, and fought back bile and tears. Oh, quit your laughing. I know that if this is the worst thing I have to deal with as a parent I’m pretty lucky. I know that at least it isn’t cancer, or another dread disease. I realize we’ll get over it, and things will be fine. I get it.

Out of respect to my child, I will go no further describing my child’s involvement. But I will let you in on a few things that now go on in my head. (Not on my head, Praise you Jesus.)

First, I have morphed into one big itch. My leg itches-I have body lice. My eye twitches- the suckers are feasting on my cornea. My toe throbs-I’m sure somehow the vermin have found a way inside my muscle wall. I actually considered walking through the house with a blowtorch and a can of Aqua Net. The mass burnings of the Great Plague no longer elude me. My husband and I piled all the potentially “contaminated” articles onto the floor of the toy room, and proceeded to do laundry from there. In fact, I have one more load to go, 7 days later. I have decided that throw pillows are unnecessary; stuffed animals contraband. I have a bid on e-bay for three cases of clear shower caps, which I am considering making a dress requirement for all family and visitors.

I have told only a few family members and close friends-not even wanting to joke about it myself. “What will people think? Will they start staring at my head all the time? Will they refuse to let our children play together?” It’s one of the largest silent social secrets of all time, probably next to swinging. It’s something adults whisper about in hushed tones, only divulging their own personal familial battle after they have seen a friend’s RID bottle wedged between the folds of the newspaper while in line at CVS. It’s that illusion bubble popped, as people wonder, “WE can’t have it! We’re (rich, clean, smart, funny, normal…fill in your adjective).”

This event has transformed the way I see the world, and unfortunately, not for the better.
I am doing errands at Target, and see an employee scratch her head. “I bet she has lice,” I think. A few more employees later, I witness another itcher. “Yep, everyone who works here has it.” I wonder if there are nits lying around on the shopping carts I touch-the backpack from school, the plate the neighbors sent over with cookies. I stare at the backs of people’s heads watching for movement. I cringe (just a little) when my children want to have the neighbors over to watch a movie, or get out all the blankets and make a fort. The movie theatre is one big, fat contamination area. Airplane seats the enemy. My good friend (and secret-lice-sister) suggested taking plastic bags with me and laying them behind my children’s head in any public setting. Now you’re being downright silly, you say. Honey, that’s only part of my problem.

I now check all my children and my husband every night-and have discovered no invaders. One remaining issue resides in the fact that I must trust my husband to look through my hair and detect the undetectable. My husband (bless his heart) can’t find his car keys in the car key drawer. “Where did you find the keys?” he’ll ask as I hand them to him once again. “In the drawer,” I sigh, “where they always are.” “Huh,” he replies. “I thought I looked there.”
You can imagine the solace this gives me, as he exclaims, “No honey, don’t see a thing.” Since I have little confidence that he would be able to find anything, (were there anything to find) I shampooed with the special stuff twice, blow dry my hair every night- making sure to sufficiently burn my scalp in all areas-pull it back into a ponytail, and refuse to scratch my head with my fingers, lest I should accidentally get an invisible nit under my fingernails, and pass it along to one of my family. Would you like to have coffee now?

The people I have told, have been very supportive. One of my good friends told me that lice only like really clean heads, so I should take that as a compliment. She informed me that people who are homeless don’t have lice, because their heads can be so dirty. Well, if that’s the case, I’m packing the children up tomorrow because I found a perfect bench on the Common, with a fab view of the Frog Pond.

I had never heard this particular assertion, so I did a little research. There is enough conflicting web information to make a person scratch their head. Lice is hard to get rid of. It’s easy to get rid of. Lice only like clean heads. Lice don’t care how clean your head is, as long as you have one. Cover your head in mayonnaise and wear a shower cap to bed. NEVER use mayonnaise and a shower cap, it’s bad for you. Lindane is the best pesticide to get rid of the bugs. Lindane is an incredibly toxic chemical and should never, never be used to get rid of lice. The best yet, was that gasoline and kerosene get rid of lice. The one side effect is you might unintentionally off your kids. There were so many mixed messages, that the blowtorch and Aqua Net idea started sounding logical. My mother poo-pooed me. MY mother. The woman who handed me her phobia genes, said, “Rachel, relax. It’s like you’re trying to kill a fly with a brick.”

Well, at least I would know the fly is dead. I am nothing, if not psychotically thorough.
As my child complains about having to sit still for an hour while I comb my child’s hair, I think to myself, “There will a come a day, when you’ll be glad I was so nit-picky.”

Happy Historic Day

"The experience of democracy is like the experience of life itself-always changing,

infinite in its variety, sometimes turbulent and all the more

valuable for having been tested by adversity."

James Earl "Jimmy" Carter, Jr


Today I woke up-started the coffee, found my three kids happily playing in bed together. Everyone dressed early, fixed their hair, ate a quick muffin and half a banana. Together we watched various news channels, as commentators, authors, government officials and everyday citizens voiced opinions and sentiments about our United States of America. My hair is unfixed; I’ve no makeup on. I’m in my sweats ready to sit in front of the computer for hours and hours working today. My youngest daughter has a runny nose, my middle daughter’s socks do not match, and my son no doubt forgot something he was supposed to take to school. Today is like every other day.

And yet, today is like no day we have ever lived or witnessed before.

I’m trying to capture all the details of these moments, because the events of last night and this morning will forever be enshrined in school text books, encyclopedia’s; the invisible stone tablets of “the past” will now carry the carvings of now. I’m trying to impress upon my children, that they are living in a time when all things really are possible. That in a short span of 50+ years, our nation has gone from prohibiting black citizens of our country from eating in restaurants, drinking from fountains, having equal opportunities for quality education, to electing a black President who moved hundreds of thousands of people to vote, take an interest in national politics, and congregate in multitudes on the streets of every town to watch this final journey.

Regardless of how you voted, regardless of your political viewpoints and party choice, you must admit, today is an historic day. Notice where you are, what you’re doing, things you thought and feared. You’ll be regaling your grandchildren (maybe great-grandchildren) with the stories of “I remember when Obama was elected President.”

The Benefits and Consequences of Choice

Just returned home from voting. Yes, the Good American that I am fulfilled the duty-pinnacle of what it means to be a thriving member of our society. I can’t help but feel like someone who has purchased 100 dollars in lottery tickets for the billion-dollar pot, hoping my numbers will be drawn. Like when I hold two movies behind my back for the kids, because they can’t seem to agree on what to watch- the nation is holding those movies behind it’s back and I’m jumping up and down with my fingers crossed hoping mine gets picked. My husband voted earlier in the day, and since he has been home from the voting booth, the TV has been on, and will remain so until a winner is announced. In fact, there are only a few times in our lives when TV watching becomes the meth-drug we can’t live without; the OJ Simpson trial, the Bush-Gore presidential race, and the events of 9/11. My husband and I will be sucked in again, and no one-I repeat, no one- will be allowed to change the station. Not even to watch the weather, and we watch the weather channel a lot.

I admit it did feel good to vote, even if my vote doesn’t really count. I know everyone says all votes count, but not really. Those electoral votes are the ones that count-not the popular vote in which each person’s voice is really heard. (Remember the Gore-Bush election? Good ol’ Al did rise from the ashes to make a pretty fab documentary though.) But the fact that I get to make a choice, that I could walk into that voting place, fill in the bubbles of my choice, and then drive home without threat to my life, or the risk of bodily injury is one great benefit of our freedoms.

Regardless of who I voted for, when it comes down to the winner, I’m going to have to be satisfied even if it wasn’t my pick. That’s the consequence of choice- that there will be a majority, and the majority will win, even if it wasn’t my majority. If the person I voted for doesn’t get elected, I have more choices still. I can choose to bitch and whine about that person for the next four years-blame him for all the problems in our nation and rant and rave about how “I’m not responsible, because I didn’t choose him.” Again, I’ll be free to do this because I live in America, and as American’s we have a fundamental right to complain. I don’t think I have ever witnessed a presidential race where someone didn’t say, “I’m voting for the lesser of two evils,” or express their belief that our choices just “aren’t that great.” And when the winner is announced all heck will break loose (I hope I'm wrong here) as people claim voter fraud, miscounted and uncounted votes, and general election mishandling. After all, it’s only a fair system when your movie is chosen at random from behind your back. The other person no doubt, got screwed.

The ability to choose things in this great country has trickled down to the younger generations, where we give children the right to choose their lunch options at school, what they want to wear each day, how they would like their meals prepared, and what they want to be for Halloween. In fact, the ability to choose has gone a little far when it comes to Halloween and trick-or-treating.

When I was a kid, you went door-to-door, said the obligatory, “Trick-or-treat,” and then held out your bag while the man or woman holding the door open plopped something in your bag. Once home, mom and dad made you dump the sugar-booty onto the carpet, where they sat to inspect said merchandise. The pinnacle of the night (for me anyway) was to organize that candy into similar groupings. After grouping those treats, it was then you realized that the majority of your candy consisted of Dum-Dum lollipops, Double-Bubble chewing gum and Tootsie rolls. There was the sprinkling of mini-sized chocolate bars, to be savored for sure, because even my father was prone to steal those out of our bags, leaving us the stupid hard candy, gum and Laffy Taffy. They call those lollipops Dum-Dum for a reason.

The climate of choice has now drifted into the long-standing trick-or-treat tradition and forever changed the I-only-got-candy-that-sucked atmosphere. I had to farm out my older two children this year for trick-or-treating, because my husband was out of town on business. I was not able to watch them scamper up to doors, ring the bell, say thank you, and run to the next house. So my son trots home after a few hours, and proceeds to dump the contents of his pillowcase (I know, how gluttonously horrific) on the kitchen table. Piles of candy spill out, including 5 or 6 full size candy bars, and tons and tons of chocolate. One piece of Double-Bubble, and only two Dum Dums. Mind you, we only visit houses on two streets-the same two streets each October. “Wow,” I exclaim. “The neighbors sure were generous this year.” My son nods, and begins choosing the 20 pieces I let him keep. The rest gets put in a bowl for my husband’s office.

About an hour later, in waltzes my daughter with her normal size Halloween bag, and proceeds to spill the contents out for inspection. My daughter easily has less than half the amount her brother collected. Almost everything in my daughter’s pile is a Reese’s peanut butter cup. “Did you go to both streets?” I ask her. She nods in affirmation at which point I yell: “SON! GET UP HERE!”

My son trots in (again)—“What?”
“Why do you have so much more candy than your sister?”
Shrugs with creeping smile.
“Did the neighbors let you pick the candy?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he replies.
“Did you take MORE THAN ONE PIECE?” I ask incredulously.
“Well, they all kept telling me to take a handful, take a handful, so I did.”
“You actually took handfuls of candy from the neighbor’s bowls? I don’t even let you keep all that candy? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?”
Shrugs again. “I was just doing what they said,” he tells me.
Sigh.
I’m wondering what Emily Post would suggest in my situation. Apology notes for the whole neighborhood? Personal door-to-door handing back of excess candy taken? Wear a black bag over my head in ridicule for having a 9 year-old boy act like a 9-year old boy? When did kids start getting a choice in what they received in their trick-or treat bags? When did neighbors start lowering the bowl and state, “Choose what you like honey?” And when did the candy morph from crappy starlight peppermints and Dum Dums, to all chocolate bars?

Choice. While my son chose to pillage the neighbors bowls (they asked him to of course), he still had to choose only 20 to keep. All that extra bounty for nothing. My daughter chose to take the high road and only take one, but the same one over and over. She is now getting sick of peanut butter cups and wants to trade with her brother and her friends. In good American fashion, they’re both complaining that they never get enough candy-they wish they would have gotten different stuff, they made a mistake, next year they're going to...blah, blah, blah.

Looks like they’re on the road to becoming good voting citizens.

More Inappropriate Costumes 2008

First I need to address this: I found it on the internet. Will the idiot who decided this was a good idea, please come forward?

In case you missed last years blog on Inappropriate Halloween Costumes For Children, you should really take few moments and reference it. Those of you still searching for the perfect outfit to throw on your little cherubs will not be disappointed with the selection, and there’s even more below.

My son only recently (as in three days ago) told me what he wanted to be for Halloween. After much discernment, thoughtful pondering and intensive research, he announced that he would like to be “someone in the war.”
“You mean, a solider, a military person?” Hoping he wasn’t opting for the bloody remnants of a fallen enemy.
“Yeah- I want to be a solider.”
“Just curious, why do you want to be that?” I ask. Again, listening for the words noble, or brave, or strong, or something resembling honor.
“Because I really want to carry a weapon. Can I have a real gun for my costume?”

Sigh. I pointed out to him that if he just wanted to carry a gun as part of his costume, there were many, many things he could dress as. A murderer. A Police Officer. Sarah Palin. Dick Cheney. A Russian bakery owner. An angry teenager. Why be limited? But he decided on the solider-so I’m stuck with that. The jury is still out on whether I’m going to let him have a “real” weapon. I don’t suppose he’ll be satisfied with the pop rifle we have from Bass Pro Shop. Maybe I can paint a lemon olive-green, and let him have a hand grenade.

I have convinced my daughter to dress as a gypsy this year. Mainly because I have all parts of the outfit already in our dress-up box. It’s also a bit nostalgic for me as well, since I used to dress up as a gypsy for Halloween all the time. Why? Because (again) mom had all the parts for the outfit at home. Everyone knows a homemade costume is 10 times better than those vinyl sheaths and plastic masks. At least that’s what mom sold me. It has been a bit difficult to explain to my daughter what a gypsy is. That’s an icon that has been removed from the history lessons and TV shows these days-so I look up some images on line. We shuffle through them, and she asks, “Yes, but what did gypsy’s do?”
Hmmm. “Well, they moved around from place to place.”
“That’s all?”
“Well, no, they played the tambourine and sang and probably stole stuff from people before they moved on.”
“The stole stuff?”
“Well, yes, but its not exactly the same as stealing stuff today…and..well…” At this point I have a son who wants to carry violent weapons and a daughter who I’m dressing up as a thief and vagrant. As a mother I have fed and clothed them, protected them from harm, kept them warm in the winter, and have occasionally provided laughter and good memories. Apparently their character and tendencies I cannot attest to.

In that light, I made a list of a few more Inappropriate Costumes, in case there are any of you out there who would like to join the ranks of Mother of the Year.

Burning Dollar Bill- spray paint a rectangle of foam green and affix an image of Jefferson on the front. Put 100’s in each corner. Shred some red, orange and yellow tissue paper and affix around a flashlight to symbolize a large burning flame. Put on your child’s head. Teach your child the following slogans to recite as he/she walks through the neighborhood; “The world is going to hell in a handbasket;” “Our president always sucks;” “Down with Government Control;” and lastly, “Nobody gives a rat’s ass about the middle class.”

A Made In China Sign- This costume is super simple and for the cash strapped family. All you need is a large piece of carboard-paint it white and stencil in, “Made in China.” Make sure you use lead paint. For good measure and to really get the point across, hang some milk bottles from the side, labeled “Melamine only,” and attach some stuffed (read: dead) dogs and cats for your child to drag along. If you’re really looking to be edgy, tape a bunch of fake money to the sign, since that’s where most of ours is going.

Politician In Handcuffs- (For the boy in your family) Another budget conscious outfit. Dress your child up in his/her Sunday best-slacks, blazer and shirt and tie. Handcuff your child’s hands behind their back, and hang a sign around their neck that reads, “Washington Politician.” Keep your neighbors guessing as they wonder, Kinky role play? Arrested for soliciting sex? Caught taking kickbacks from Columbia or Mexico? Cuffed for pilfering millions of our retirement dollars? It’s a costume and charades all rolled into one.

Angelina Jolie-Pitt- (For the girl in your house) For the social worker and do-gooder in every girl! Dress your daughter in a fancy, billowy frock, and give her a pair of those big, red wax lips. Tape 27-35 pictures of multi-national babies and a few sets of twins, to the outfit. Place crown on her head with glowing halo. For your daughters best friend, have her dress in plain clothes, ruffle up her hair, and attach 27-35 multi-national and twin life-like baby dolls to her outfit. Place sign on her back reading, “Nanny who really takes care of state-spoon-like-infant-collection.”

Well, I hope that provides parents who are at a stalemate with their child, some additional costume alternatives. It doesn’t really matter if your child understands it, its all about how much you and your friends can laugh at how clever you are. I’m up for ideas. Any additional last minute suggestions?

When I’m 64…

My thirty-something birthday was last week, and I had a marvelous time. My husband made his famous (and my favorite) Eggs Benedict for breakfast, I shopped all day with my mother, and then went to eat dinner (sans children) at a fancy restaurant in Boston that does not serve mac n’ cheese or chicken strips. I was able to order what I wanted without thinking about what child I would share with, and didn’t have to say, “please sit down and stop kicking the seat,” once. I threw back two French martini’s and didn’t worry about who was going to put the kids to bed. It was a great day.

But, you know you’ve reached a new age plateau when the gifts you request for your birthday (or even Christmas for that matter) go from a want to a need. In fact, I think I reached that Grown Up Place, because this year my gifts were practical and needed. I opened up my new slippers and socks with the same joy my daughter opened her Hanna Montana wig last Christmas. I put on those slippers and haven’t taken them off since. I oohed and ahhed at the two kitchen whisks I received from my sister-in-law, to replace the one that my son decided to use for a modern sculpture of a banana. Now I can effectively beat eggs and whisk gravy using more than one whisk loop at a time. I got a gift card from my parents-in-law, and purchased two shirts that do not have oil stains or bleach marks; shirts that have only belonged to me and did not come from my Mother’s Closet—the only other place I really get clothes. My husband got me sleep wear, but before you go thinking it’s something remotely sexy, it was a pair of black spandex capris and two cotton tank tops. I asked for these because my old 80’s spandex shorts are now to worn to be worn, and I’m sick of turquoise. I also really need new underwear, but I have to save something for my Christmas list.

I realize that I’m starting to sound pathetic. I fight and fight to keep that youthful attitude, appearance and desires going, but honestly, that kind of mentality takes excessive energy. There aren’t many things these days that sound as good as laying in a warm bed with a good book. When I shop (much to the dismay of my sisters and close friends) I am drawn to things described as “cozy,” “cotton,” or “machine-wash-tumble-dry,” and not “trendy,” “sexy,” and definitely not “dry-clean-only.” I would rather wear something comfortable, that does not prevent me from taking deep breaths, show my mid-riff when I raise my arms, or pinch my crotch when I sit or bend over. If the care instructions require anything more than washing and drying, I leave it on the rack in the store. Hang dry? Nope. Hand wash? Hell no. Dry clean only? I can guarantee it will remain dirty.

Perhaps I’m an old soul, as they say, for my desire for comfort goes way back. My mother used to incase all the seams of my nightgowns in flannel because they itched me. I refused to wear overalls because they pinched my crotch when I bent over to play. I wore my socks inside out until—well okay I still do—because the seams bother my toes. I even made sure my wedding dress had enough room so I could eat without feeling all gassy. My mother calls me a high-maintenance princess. I think I’m really a 65 year-old trapped in a young woman’s body. In fact, my two favorite articles of clothing happen to be two cozy cardigans I wear around the house.

Many people grumble about getting older. I think it’s been kinda neat so far. I admit I haven’t been hit with any huge health issues, failing joints, or memory problems lasting more than 24 hours. Here are three things I am still looking forward to when I “grow up:”

The ability to sleep wherever and whenever I want.
This has to be one of the biggest benefits I see of being old. How great to sit in a chair, chin resting on your neck, mouth agape, blaring TV on, and be completely asleep! Sound sleep always eludes me, even with four pillows, a feather comforter, a lavender eye mask and a Tylenol PM. I am such a light sleeper I wake up to water dripping, creaking loft ladders, and whimpering children. I deal with a snoring husband, an alarm clock that is too bright, and blinking phone lights. I cannot wait to be older and be able to fall asleep sitting up, or better yet, in mid sentence. How awesome to sleep so soundly that the sound of my own breath does not wake me, or drool startle me. I can’t wait!!

To unabashedly wear comfortable things.
I’m not quite at the elastic waist band phase yet, but I look forward to it. Not that I’m a big eater, but I love the thought of being able to eat, say, Thanksgiving dinner, and not have to lay down or unbutton my pants to breathe afterwards. The idea of buying shoes because they feel like walking on marshmallows, not because they accentuate my pedicure, is enticing. Imagine how much happier women would be if their feet didn’t hurt all the time. I also wouldn’t need to be concerned with dry heels, and worry and fret that people are talking about how I should really use some lotion.

Menopause.
Okay, so I had to mention it. In fact, if I could catalog-order menopause, I would have done it yesterday. How great not to have to worry and fret over birth control! No more periods! No more marks on the calendar! Gone is the apprehension that you’ll be caught off-guard and without a panty liner to your name. Oh sure, I know there are side effects and problems associated with menopause. But I figure it can’t be any worse than my current mood swings, migraine marathons and general bitchy-ness, right? Just ask my husband. He’s campaigning for my menopausal age too. In fact, in another lifetime, on another planet, it would be neat if you could check out a uterus like a library book. Want children? Go to the Uterus-ary. Done? “I’d like to return my uterus now. It was great! Gave me three perfect kids. I’d recommend this one for sure, but I’m all finished with it, thanks.” No late fees apply.

There are many great benefits to getting older, I think we all just spend a lot of time focusing on the negative. The pain. The inability to see or hear well. But there are good points too. What about you? What are you looking forward to when you Grow Up?

Ways 2 $ave (That you may not have thought of.)

Ahh, it is becoming a scary world out there-full of uncertainty, high prices, and questions without answers. This was brought home to me the other day when I stopped to chat with a neighbor who was walking down the street. This gentleman neighbor of mine is a retired banker who’s world view is pretty similar to those people who stand on the street corner holding the sign that reads, “THE WORLD IS GOING TO HELL. REPENT NOW!”
“So,” he says to me. “Looks like the world is going to end since they didn’t pass the (first) economic reform bill.”
“Oh they didn’t?” I reply. “I hadn’t heard the lastest. I’ve been working on the computer all day.”
“And you didn’t tune into the news? Yep, it didn’t pass. I hope you have a gun.”
“A gun?” I ask.
“Yeah, to protect yourself when the people start coming for your money and land. ‘Cause they’re going to come.”
(Chuckling a uncomfortably because I’m not quite sure if he is serious…) “Oh, I have my husband to protect me.”
“You’re gonna need more than that,” he replies.

Well, so maybe I will. While we are not members of the NRA, we do own a gun. All you friends and family who covet my stuff better keep your distance. I took shooting lessons from Sarah.

But that got me thinking. The atmosphere has changed. I can no longer go shopping and experience that silly rush to my head, that dizzy-buzzed feeling I get when I spend money. Oh, I still spend it, but that warm fuzzy feeling I used to have, has been replaced by a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that I really shouldn’t be here, really shouldn’t be buying this beaded pumpkin placemat, should instead be at home churning my own butter and learning how to sew my own clothes. As if the changes in my shopping habits weren’t enough, I now can no longer enjoy my second life’s passion: eating chocolate. Now I am reading the back of all packages that may perhaps contain any type of milk or milk by-products while simultaneously looking for the words “Made in China.” Us Americans are happy to support their economy by purchasing a million items from the 99 cents store, but now we’re dying or getting sick doing it. I suppose that age-old adage about no free lunch really isn’t bunk.

For those of you (including myself) who are now on a spending freeze, and rationing out the oreos to make them last longer, I have come up with a few new ways to save money that you may not have thought of. 4 easy ways to cut back and spend less.

#1: Stop Shaving
While at Costco the other week I needed razor cartridges, and focusing on the 25 options to choose from, was engrossed in making sure I bought the appropriate razorhead for my razor. After chucking it into the cart, referenced the price, and immediately pulled it back out of the cart as if diseased. Surely there was a typo: surely a 10-pack of razor cartridges does not cost $40. Surely. I use the real razor as opposed to the disposable because it was one way to try being “green,” but there are no cost breaks for the earth-consious consumer. $40 could by me a cart full of produce, pay my cell phone bill, save 40 kids in some third-world country, or purchase all my Christmas gifts from the 99 cents store. In fact, I could probably purchase a small microwave for that amount, strip the metal off and have my husband use his band saw to slice teeny-tiny rectangles off for me to build 1,000 of my own razors. I don’t get the marketing frenzy. It’s not as if hair doesn’t grow back. It’s not like Gillette or Venus has to think, “Hurry, jack that price up, they may never shave again.” I think razors should be more like cigarettes. Those companies know how to keep prices relatively low. You can get 200 cigarettes per carton, at about $37.00 per carton. That’s 200 hits of perfect (if cancer causing) lovin’, to my measly 10 razor heads. In fact, if I stopped shaving and took up smoking, I would still save money. In addition to the financial facts, refusing to shave would send the world a message that it’s really all vanity anyway. We should be focusing on the character of a person, not whether or not they have a beard, 5 o’clock shadow, canine legs or a toupe under their arm. Smooth skin is overrated. And expensive. Stop shaving and you’ll save a bundle.

#2: Go Vegetarian
Another big money sucker is flesh. No, not the illegal-can’t-tell-your-wife-about-it kind; the big mammals that humans have decided should be food. I’m not a big carnivore by nature anyway, but I do enjoy my husband’s BBQ ribs and a juicy hamburger on occasion. Again, I tend to purchase my meat at Costco, because I refuse to pay $10 for three small boneless, skinless, chicken boobs. In fact, there is probably more meat on my sagging-nursed-three-children chest than the average poultry knocker. Most grocery stores average $4.99 a pound for chicken (not on sale of course), but at Costco you can get 8 packages of chicken breasts (2-3 boobs each) for about $20.00. Now twenty bucks to most is not a big deal. I have gone through twenties like tossing pennies in a fountain; not remembering what is was I even spent it on. Things like lunch money I didn’t get the change from, pizza delivery and tip, a gratuity for the newspaper guy, a Starbucks, a donut, a quality hamburger for the kids on the way home from ball practice. But $20 will still buy a decent amount of produce, and pasta pasta pasta. A couple 5lb bags of potatoes. Those starches really do stretch the food budget. Skip meat altogether, save your money and your colon. Now there’s a strategy a person could really get behind.

#3: Buy a Cow
Not just for the dairy farmer any longer, owning a cow is now a possibility for even those square-footage-challenged dwellers. According to Mydairycow.com, owning a dairy cow has never been easier. This answers the question, “Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free,” because a gallon of milk is now just under four dollars. Not free in the least. While forking over the $2,000-$3,000 for your initial heifer investment may seem tough to stomach, it has many cost saving benefits in the long run. You never have to buy milk again. Cream for your coffee? Hang on, let me squirt that for you. Butter for your toast? Keep rolling that little glass jar back and forth on the table. (It doubles as entertainment.) Need sour cream for those veggie nachos? The milk under the water heater is just for you. Make your own yogurt, cream fraise, whipped cream and artisnal chocolate. You’ll be the Bree Vandecamp of your neighborhood-loved by one and all; not just for your farm fresh goodness, negative carbon-printing foot and green world view, but also your exotic house pet. Did I mention all these products are melamine free?? No label reading needed.
But what about space? What about mess?

You’ll be glad to know that even those who live in apartments can own their own dairy cow. According to the above website, their “Apartment Friendly cows are bread to be 2/3 size (about the size of a large doberman) and make great watch cows, too!” You can now cancel your ADT home security contract with a clear conscious and save additional dollars. In the event an intruder were to make a midnight visit to your home, they’ll no doubt take a time-out to investigate your new pet. While they are doing that the cow’s mooing will alarm you to an unwelcome guest, and just when the intruder squats down to squirt a little la leche goodness into his/her mouth (because even illegal activity makes a person thirsty) they will get a swift kick to the head, knocking them unconscious. Heavy sleeper? No worries! When the intruder regains consciousness and leaves, your little bovine will have left a hoof mark that noone could mistake. Safety on so many levels! The mess is no issue either, as you can also purchase their “environmentally friendly waste converter and power your home on the dung your cow produces each day!” Another savings! Is there no end?? Why don’t we all own cows?

#4: Put you and your family on self-imposed house arrest.
The benefit of self-imposing this sanction, is the absence of those clumsy ankle monitors. You now have one-up on Martha Stewart, and she has everything. There will be an occasion where you will have to go to the market to replenish the food stores and toilet paper. Outside of these times, here is a brief listing of the benefits:

• If your children do not go to birthday parties, you do not have to purchase presents.
• No playdates means you do not provide snacks and therefore save on your food bill.
• No trips to Target or Walmart alone save at least a hundred per trip.
• Not going anywhere means no driving, which means, no gas, no emissions, no greenhouse effects, no used oil waste, no containers of Wet Ones used to clean up vehicle vomit.
• Not going shopping means no new clothes-which forces you to recycle the ones you have, patch the holes, and add lengthening fringe around hems. Recycling clothes will put less trash in the landfills, let some poor village 8 year-old go home and play for once, and reduce the amount of dyes and fabric sizing that gets dumped into our water systems each year.
  

What about work? you ask. And school?
Work is overrated. No doubt they aren’t paying you what you’re worth, and because of our depressed economic state you’ll probably end up losing your job anyway. Don’t fret about this though, because you’ll be collecting unemployment wages, which aren’t much, but if you follow some of these above mentioned cash-saving ideas, will be more than enough to get by. It’s okay to send the kids to public school, but make sure they walk and bring their lunch. It’s a free day of babysitting, giving you and your spouse time to rekindle that spark, ignited so many years ago. This saves on marriage counseling bills, and since you aren’t driving anywhere forces you to stay at home and work on communication.

You see friend, I have your best interest at heart. Sure, canceling the cable or downsizing your long-distance package with your cell phone carrier are good ideas. But they’ll only take you so far. These ideas are for those looking for even more ways to cut back, spend less and save the earth. As mom used to say,
“Necessity is the mother of invention.”

Say WHAT?

Part I:
This summer I traveled to Gregory, South Dakota with the baby, my mother, aunt and my 90 year-old grandmother. Our trip was something reminiscent of National Lampoons Vacation, but with ample does of estrogen therapy and prozac. We made our way through the trip, but someone really needs to come up with a law against having that many genetically related women together in a vehicle. Either that, or offer free counseling coupons to those who find they have no choice. Perhaps Sarah Palin could suggest that type of bill, or do the counseling herself, since she is so experienced in the stressful-life-situations category.

The Mission of this trip:

To take my grandmother back to visit her three remaining siblings. Characterization follows:

Mabel, 78; Affable and smiley; is repeatedly called, “Mabel-Betty-Grabel” by my aunt. Plump and squishy when hugging, strong farming woman whose hands could snap you in two if she decided it needed done. Bakes kolache (a Czech sweet bread) worth dying over. (Or at least losing a finger.) Funny, charming, and deafer than a shrew’s husband. She refuses to wear hearing aides, although at 78, she could get a lot of longevity out of them, and could actually enjoy a full conversation without turning her head to the side, pointing to her ear and shaking her head no. She’s happy to yell, “I DI'N’T HEAR THAT..” but she seemed to prefer the miming.

Lambert, 81; Slender and agile, never drove a car that anyone can remember. Walks all over town, all day long, spending a good bit of time in the back of Louies Downtown Market, playing the slots. A peaceful, docile soul, never married, has no children. Lives alone in a little apartment, that no one has ever been in. He meets you on your way to his door, and closes it behind him. Quick to smile, and responds to all questions and comments, with “Ohhh….Okay.” Acutely sensitive to sound, his hearing is sharper than a blind water mammal. More than likely can hear dog whistles and Angel’s whispering, and has been witnessed plugging his ears, and then flipping off loud trucks that barrel down the street.

Florence, 90; Grandma’s got the strong genetics, strong spirit and sharp tongue. Bestows compliments sparingly, and those she gives are attached to some kind of barb. The only one of her remaining siblings to have left the grain-country of South Dakota, and move west by herself. Has fortitude of character that masks a melancholy soul. Her voice is soft and high pitched, uncharacteristic of her brusque personality—reminiscent of a child who strains her voice over a froggy throat to be heard. Wears two hearing aides that whistle like tea kettles more than they aide in her hearing. Is constantly changing their batteries, and turning them up, although this never amounts to much except more squealing.

Richard, 93; Lives in an assisted living facility that is always cold. Married (for the first time) Marie in his 60’s, whose passing he laments with teary eyes daily. He wears a folded paper napkin inside his baseball cap to insulate his head that hasn’t seen hair in years. He’s mostly bones, losing weight because he “don’t like most of what they fix aroun' here.” But when eating dinner with our family at the farm, can put away his weight in food. He can regale you with stories of his past, the war, and growing up destitute on the farm, but has trouble remembering which face belongs to who, what day or month it is, and if he told you that it’s always cold downstairs in the morning. Never had children of his own. Has a “good ear,” and a “bad ear,” even though "good" is relative because the “bad one” is pretty much there for looks. You must make sure you communicate to him in his, “good ear,” or you won’t be heard.

A typical luncheon or dinner went something like this:
“HI UNCLE RICHARD. HOW ARE YOU DOING TODAY?”
“WHAT?” (turning good ear towards you)
“I SAID HOW ARE YOU DOING TODAY?”
“IT’S ALWAYS COLD DOWN HERE IN THE MORNING. I JUST WEAR THIS OVERSHIRT TO KEEP ME WARM.”
“MABEL’S HERE TO VISIT TOO. HI AUNT MABEL, HOW ARE YOU TODAY?”
(Smiling and pointing to ear..)
“SORRY. I SAID HOW ARE YOU TODAY AUNT MABEL? DID YOU BRING ANY MORE KOLACHE?”
“THERES SOME MORE IN THEM BAGS OVER THERE. WHERE’S YOUR GRANDMA?”
“SHE’S IN THE BEDROOM. LET ME GO GET HER FOR YOU.”
“GRANDMA! AUNT MABEL AND RICHARD ARE HERE TO VISIT.”
(follow squeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaalllllll squeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaallllllll down the hall. Grandma is adjusting her hearing aides again.)
“okay. I wouldn’t mind some tea. is there tea on? who’s here again?”
“SO FAR, MABEL AND RICHARD. MOM WENT TO PICK UP LAMBERT.”
(Lambert arrives.)
“HI UNCLE LAMBERT. DID YOU WIN ANYTHING AT THE SLOTS YESTERDAY?”
“Ohhh…ohkay. Whatcha yellin for?”
(In normal voice) “Sorry, I can’t remember who I need to yell at and who I don’t.” He chuckles.

These conversations (enough to make even Gordon Pask shake his head) continued at about 90 decibels, and Uncle Lambert would listen through finger-plugged ears. After a couple excedrine migraine pills, you were able to sit back and enjoy the conversational dance:
yell-leanforward-turnhead-repeat
yell response-leanforward-turnhead-repeat
repeat-repeat-turnhead-repeat-respond


Part II
While communicating with my great-aunts and uncles was a bit difficult and included a lot of yelling, it suddenly occurred to me, that communicating with my husband is not much different.

It’s not news to anyone, including my husband and me, that our communication skills are a tad lacking. We addressed it in pre-marriage counseling, and again in after-marriage counseling, and to this day, I’m not sure we’re any better at communicating-except for the fact that we both understand that it’s not really our strong suit. I tend to see the forest, my husband sees the trees. I phrase things in questions, (typically rhetorical where the only answer I’m looking for is, yes, or sure.) My husband doesn’t phrase anything, just makes statements in which I am to surmise the request, like, “The laundry needs done,” or “registrations are open for baseball.” My husband also has a “good ear,” and a “bad ear,” and while they are not quite like Uncle Richards, I at least need to verfiy which one is facing me.

Being the forward thinkers that we are, and wanting to give that silly Gordon Pask a run for his money, my husband and I have developed our own communication style in which we talk only in predicates and prepositional phrases, leaving out or mumbling the subject and verb of each sentence whenever possible. This keeps things lively, as we are never sure what to expect or whom is going to do what. A recent conversation went like this:

Husband: “jcnejrheoicase, set the coffee.”
Me: “What? I didn’t hear you.”
H: “sjkdkirjfeoikj,” (head peeks around the corner, good ear towards me) “set the coffee.”
M: “Yes, set the coffee.”

At this point I’m feeling proud for a number of reasons.

1. I clarified what he was saying, by voicing that I didn’t hear him.
2. After he repeated the phrase, I said to, yes, set the coffee. As in, please do it.
3. I am thrilled that he offered to set the coffee for me so it would be ready when I woke up.
   

You can imagine my surprise when I woke up the next morning to no hot coffee, no grinds in the drip basket, no water in the reservoir--nothing. No coffee. I march into the bedroom where he is still in bed. Poke, poke, poke.

“Where is the coffee? I thought you said you were going to set it?”
“No,” he sleepily replied, “I asked if you had set the coffee. You said, yes, I set the coffee.”
“No,” I inform him. “I thought you asked, do you want me to set the coffee, that’s why I tried to clarify what you said, and then I said, yes, set the coffee.”
I marched out of the room, frustrated, but not surprised. At least we were talking about the same subject.

Another example of our completely functional communication style: yesterday morning I was reading to him some titles of recipes from an old cookbook. Most all the recipes contained a fair amount of gelatin, which I find a heinous ingredient, especially recipes requiring the use of a mold, say in the shape of a jumping salmon or pointy high rise circle. I was reading some of these recipe titles to him:

M: “Honey, listen to this one: Nova Scotia Mold. Doesn’t that sound disgusting? It’s also got your favorite ingredient (chide chide)…salmon.”
H: “Hmmm. Salmon huh? My favorite.”
Imagine my lack of surprise when later that night, my husband is leafing through the very same cookbook and says to me:
H: “Oh, no way. Listen to this. Novia Scotia Mold.”
M: (Staring at him like he has three heads and with annoyed tone in my voice) “Yeah, remember, I mentioned that one earlier? The salmon?
H: “You read this one to me? (With no-you-didn’t-tone) I don’t remember you saying the mold part.”
M: “I read it. That same one. Nova Scotia Mold.”
H: “I must have tuned you out then.”

Unfortunately, truer words are rarely spoken. You may notice that we also communicate with a substantial amount of tone in our voice. This tone has many species, but derives from the family sarcasticus-majorus. When you leave out the subjects and verbs of your statements, you have to fill that void with something. We find that tone really helps to set the, well…tone.

Part III
Lambert and Grandma are visiting outside.
L: “So Flo, how’s your ticker?” (Thumping his chest with his fingers.)
G: “My pickup?”
L: “NO, YOUR TICKER.” (Thumping chest again.)
G: “oh, I don’t have a pickup. I have a car. I don’t drive much anymore, my son takes me where I need to go.”
At this point, Uncle Lambert catches my eye, we share a smile and quiet chuckle, as he explains again,
L: “NO, I MEAN YOUR HEALTH. HOW IS YOUR HEALTH?”
G: “oh, my health. it’s fine,” she says with a wave of her hand. Apparently she had more to say about the car.

Part IV
It’s nice to know that as dysfunctional as our communication is, at least it is preparing us for life as old folks. We won’t be surprised or disgruntled when our conversations turn out something like this:
Me: “HONEY, FIND MY GLASSES?”
Husband: “jkdjoiweus sjiodffa wqwen,ricnm YOUR PAST ASS.”
M: “NO, NOT MY PAST ASS, MY GLASSES, THE ONES YOU BOUGHT ME?”
H: “SOWIEUTMESOIC SODIFS SJFAPE SET THE COFFEE?”