How to Prevent an Accident

In a weird twist of fate I got out of the house with only one five year old son. We set off to the store to do a little shoe shopping. That's one advantage of having twins. Just one pair of feet will do nicely for both.

We climbed out of the van and began walking hand in hand through the parking lot. All of a sudden, Ethan starts jerking around, twisting, hopping and contorting himself while trying to get through the maze of cars to the store entrance.

"What are you doing?" I ask. "Why can't you walk normally?"

"If you step on a crack, you break your mother's back," he sang out with sing-song glee. "Don't you worry mom. I got you covered," he said, continuing to leap and jerk with added concentration.

It took us five minutes to get into the store, but we made it. If only more of life's accidents could be prevented with a catchy jingle.

And then there were TWO.

At least it's a sporty shade of teal. I mean, if I have to look at it each and every day, it's a nice bright color. This is the original facility. They have now installed a secondary restroom on the premises, a mere, 75 feet from the original. There are two port-o-johns SEVENTY FIVE FEET from each other! That's more male restroom per square foot than anywhere in the country. Seriously, why must they have two commodes located in such proximity to each other?

If they weren't across the road from each other I'd swear it's just in case one runs out of toilet paper mid-job.

Of course, neither is hidden from sight. They are both on the edge of the road, almost facing each other. One is very close to our mail box. I only check our mail under the cover of darkness when I'm sure no one is in there.

I guess I should view myself as one of the privileged. Now when I give people directions to our house I say, "Drive down the road until you see a pile of dirt. Slow down, on the left you'll pass a brightly colored plastic bathroom. Just after that, on the right is another. Make an immediate right once you pass the matching set of outdoor toilets. Use caution upon entering the driveway carefully so as not to unsettle the port-o-pot.

The Gorge of Eternal Peril

No one is exempt. The residents of this little house awoke one morning to find their spacious, grassy knoll cruelly removed and in its place a jagged precipice of despair. So long furry friends...

Room with a View

This is what I get to see (and hear) looking out my kitchen window every morning. I don't know who this guy is. I call him Max. I call them all Max.

I called my mother to tell her I'd written about her on my blog.

"I know. Your brother told me. You wrote about my chiropractor."

"Yeah. I did."

"Well, I did talk to him and I have information about your allergy problem but now I don't think I'm going to tell you because you're just going to write about it on your blog."

"So you're going to withhold life saving information from me?"

"Yes, I think I will. You're just going to keep going to your MD who's going to keep prescribing all that medicine that stunts your growth."

"Mom, I'm 34 years old. Unless I'm going to hit a mid-life growth spurt I think I'll be OK."

I'm still waiting.

Subliminal Advertising

Just how much influence does the road construction crew and the adjoining port-o-john have on my kids? I never really wondered until I heard my eight year old daughter hurl these insults: "Don't be a bladder mouth," followed by "shut your pot hole."

Now that kind of talk is not tolerated in the house, but, definitely kudos for creativity and coining a more descriptive phrase.

WWMMCD? What Would My Mother's Chiropracter Do?

In the past three weeks I seem to have developed either sporadic leprosy or an allergic reaction to who knows what. I have no idea what the catalyst could be. The circumstances surrounding the outbreaks have no commonality except that I was breathing.

It all started at Wal-Mart. I was supposed to be grocery shopping when I spied the ubiquitous yellow clearance sticker beckoning me to the jewelry section. Right there between the giant hoop earrings and Ying Yang key chains, my ears started to swell. Not being accustomed to the swelling of the ears, it felt like my head was changing into an Edvard Munch creation.

Then my lips started tingling and swelling into Angelina Jolie proportions. You'd think this might be a good thing, but no, this did not look good. Everything turned hot, like I was standing in the sauna, except I still had clothes on. When the hives appeared, and I began scratching every inch of exposed skin, I decided to forgo the groceries and go home. Mind you, I still bought the earrings.

Half way home I began wheezing and gasping for breath. By the time I walked through the door I was doubled over in abdominal pain. My husband was understandably disappointed there were no groceries.

A quick trip to the local ER establishment confirmed I am indeed allergic to “something.” With a prescription for steroids and one epi pen later, I was on my merry hive-free way.

I’ve had five or six of these phantom allergy induced anaphylactic reactions. While I can’t pin point the culprit, I have learned not to take Benadryl right before I’m supposed to teach a class and, word to the wise: DO NOT move leg when using an epi pen.

I’m simply at a loss as to what could be causing these odd reactions. Perhaps it’s the unearthly business going on next door. Perhaps I’m allergic to dirt mounds, beeping trucks or men in yellow hats earning prevailing wage. I’m thinking that maybe I could get some compensation from this here big sewer project. Part of that compensation would include Botox and liposuction. Let’s face it, this whole mess has caused premature aging and emotional eating binges.

When I told my mother about my allergic reactions, her first response was,” I bet my chiropractor could help.”

“What will your chiropractor do for my mystery allergy? Twist and contort me like a wet towel until he can snap the antibodies right out or maybe make me an organic necklace to ward off bad allergy spirits?”

“He could help build a wall of tolerance.” I’m beginning to wonder if my mother has transferred some sort of divine quality onto her bone cracker.

I resisted the urge to point out that if one doesn’t know what one is allergic to, how will one build a wall around it and just how many walls will one have to build before I’m tolerant to whatever it is that I’m intolerant to?

“Are you sure you’re not thinking of an exorcist? Maybe you’re thinking he could scare the allergy right out of me.”

“Don’t make fun of chiropractors. I’m going to call mine to see if he can help.”

I have no doubt she will. Meanwhile, I’m going to call an allergist.

I will do anything if you buy me Peeps

They call to me from behind their cellophane wall. Little confectionary animals beg to jump into my watering mouth. What other time of year is such a struggle, healthfully speaking, than the Easter season; the time of the Peeps? Little pieces of brightly colored marshmallow delicacy delivered only in the spring. I know you can buy them other times of the year but this is a marketing ploy unsuccessful in my opinion. Peeps just don’t taste the same at Christmas. They are the bonne bouche of my Easter basket.

There’s something about sinking your teeth through the sugary skin into the lifeless animal bodies, ripping them apart with bare teeth or even swallowing them whole that makes the extra workouts so worthwhile. I would never intentionally turn down a bunny shaped Peep but I prefer the little birdies. There’s something about the bunnies-maybe it’s the limbs. Some have arms and legs-who wants to eat an anatomically correct Peep?

I know some don’t have the refined palate required to appreciate the taste of the mass produced pure sugar delicacy. In fact, after the first Peep, I don’t recall a particular taste at all. It’s just the anticipated nectar high and zest for sugar coated birds that trigger the Pavlovian reaction.

I have been known to secretly eat an entire package of Peeps at one time. My family refused to speak to me after that incident on account of my drastic sugar high. I not only spoke loudly and at mach speed but I actually launched into Urdu at one point.

Now I pace myself. One Peep at a time. Slow and steady. Keep the blood sugar levels out of triple digits. But of course, like the Israelites wandering in the wilderness, I know that the manna from heaven will one day be gone, so I’m tempted to horde the billowy desserts. But I don’t. I don’t want to risk being caught with a stash and convicted of a misdemeanor.

In a few days they will be gone, wiped from the store shelves, remembered only by my too tight jeans. To stem the tide of desire until next season, my obsession will turn to other dainty indulgences, like Milk Duds.