Twas the day after Thanksgiving and through the post-turkey fog,
Not a creature was stirring…except obviously the dog.
The leftovers were stashed in the too-crowded fridge
There was no room for pie, not even a smidge.
The children were nestled with snacks in between
On the couch, where since 5 am they’d played Madden ’17.
And I in my bed, the covers pulled up tight,
Sighed, wondering how to avoid a political fight.
What on earth could we do to spend another day,
Without all our opinions getting in the way?
Suddenly a magical idea took shape.
A movie… one written by the one who made Snape.
I leapt out bed, shouting,“Y’all, we survived the feast,”
“So let’s go to the movies and see Fantastic Beasts!”
“Away to the movies?” my kids grumbled. “No way.That sucks!”
“We’re playing football, we don’t want to; we’re stuck.”
But the sun from the window on this cool autumn day,
Gave me strength to fake a smile, and reply, “Oh, kids? Yes way.”
With a movie review so much like Harry Potter,
I knew in a second… we really just oughter.
More rapid than quarterbacks we flung into the car,
(While my husband calculated when he could escape to the bar)
Now Parker! Now Luke! We don’t want to be late!
For the love of God, someone put that dog in the crate!
To the top of the theater, to our assigned seats!
Shut up everyone, I swear to God, this is a treat.
So up to the chairs, the kids, how they flew…
We want popcorn, we want soda, we want pizza, too!
And then, in a twinkling, I heard from the screen,
About 20 minutes worth of ads, which made us all a bit mean.
As I sucked in my breath and said “yeah, guys, I know,”
The sound blared and FINALLY the lights turned down low.
The film started with music that I knew in my heart
Hello Harry soundtrack, my, what a good start!
The characters how clever, the bad guys so scary
(Though Colin Farrell, I confess, always makes me so merry)
On Colin, On Eddie, on Tina and Queenie,
On Jacob, on Grunewald … my God, what a meanie.
The effects were amazing, couldn’t pick which was best
And they put all thoughts of politics to bed for a rest.
The story was sweeping, it took me away.
Until Luke said, “I need the bathroom, where is it, which way?”
I pointed to the exit, my eyes on the screen,
My mind consumed with each riveting scene.
The prancing and pawing of all magical creatures,
Obliterated the election in this fabulous feature.
Hours (and bathroom breaks) later, the movie scrolled to an end.
And I wiped away tears … yeah, I know, just pretend.
But as we rose from our chairs and half my family complained,
Luke whispered, “I liked it,” and I winked, no agreement feigned.
So from my house to yours I send this silly Christmas carol,
And remember, in a pinch, we've still got Colin Farrell.
I write ridiculous rants and silly stories, and way too many posts about award shows - because I am a sucker for the red carpet. Enjoy.
Thursday, December 8, 2016
Monday, November 7, 2016
Top 3 Things my kids Learned from this election
Because it's Monday....Top 3 things my kids have learned from this election:
1. That you can’t respect women if you call them names on live television. Parker watched the last debate with me. I did not talk to him during the debate, I wasn’t trying to color his views, and it was too hard to explain issues while trying to listen. But the next morning, I asked if he had any questions. Just one, he said. “Mom, is Donald Trump a liar?” I told him that I thought both candidates probably said some things that weren’t 100% true and it wouldn’t be fair to pretend that one was totally honest and the other was not. Then he said, “But he said likes women…and then he said ‘such a nasty woman.’” Yep, son. There’s that.
2. That you don’t touch people without permission. We’ve had a version of this conversation before, only it was me warning them about pervy pedophiles or creepy older kids. This went a little differently. You don’t really imagine, when you have a baby boy, one day explaining how you don’t touch girls in certain ways without their permission and that if you do, A. that’s totally wrong and B. you could go to jail. Glass half full – if my sons learn nothing else from me, EVER, I hope that lesson sticks.
3. That these things matter enough that I made them get out of bed, get out of the house at the unholy hour of 6:45 am, so that I could get in line on the 2nd day of early voting. And then, when it was my turn, I made them put down their fast food picnic on the floor of the civic center (because yes, I bribed them with breakfast, how else do you think I got them out of the house??) and I made them stand with me while I showed them how and who I was voting for. And that whether you like Hillary Clinton or not, it was a big deal that for the first time ever, a woman was on the ballot.
Of course, my kids being kids, they were all “OMG MOM, this is so boring.” But, I like to think one day they’ll have learned something from this election.
Because glass half empty: that dude could win tomorrow.
But glass half full: even if he does, I can still do everything in my power to ensure my boys turn into better men than that.
1. That you can’t respect women if you call them names on live television. Parker watched the last debate with me. I did not talk to him during the debate, I wasn’t trying to color his views, and it was too hard to explain issues while trying to listen. But the next morning, I asked if he had any questions. Just one, he said. “Mom, is Donald Trump a liar?” I told him that I thought both candidates probably said some things that weren’t 100% true and it wouldn’t be fair to pretend that one was totally honest and the other was not. Then he said, “But he said likes women…and then he said ‘such a nasty woman.’” Yep, son. There’s that.
2. That you don’t touch people without permission. We’ve had a version of this conversation before, only it was me warning them about pervy pedophiles or creepy older kids. This went a little differently. You don’t really imagine, when you have a baby boy, one day explaining how you don’t touch girls in certain ways without their permission and that if you do, A. that’s totally wrong and B. you could go to jail. Glass half full – if my sons learn nothing else from me, EVER, I hope that lesson sticks.
3. That these things matter enough that I made them get out of bed, get out of the house at the unholy hour of 6:45 am, so that I could get in line on the 2nd day of early voting. And then, when it was my turn, I made them put down their fast food picnic on the floor of the civic center (because yes, I bribed them with breakfast, how else do you think I got them out of the house??) and I made them stand with me while I showed them how and who I was voting for. And that whether you like Hillary Clinton or not, it was a big deal that for the first time ever, a woman was on the ballot.
Of course, my kids being kids, they were all “OMG MOM, this is so boring.” But, I like to think one day they’ll have learned something from this election.
Because glass half empty: that dude could win tomorrow.
But glass half full: even if he does, I can still do everything in my power to ensure my boys turn into better men than that.
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
More Ridiculous Nonsense
There are many things I'm not good at.
I'm not good at making pancakes from scratch. Which is ridiculously unfair because my mother, my father and my brother are all effortlessly Martha Stewartish at pancake-making. But if I don't use a mix, mine are like hockey pucks.
I'm not good at chemistry, or any science for that matter. It's not that I haven't tried. Ok... I tried to understand chemistry, by the time I made it to astronomy, I was a lost cause. In my defense, when people hold class in a dark room with reclining seats, they should not expect me to stay awake.
I'm not good at anything that involves a trip to Home Depot. It's not that I'm incompetent; it's just that I spent way too many hours searching for the "right" wall sconce, counting stacks of backsplash tiles and a thousand other obnoxious tasks ten years ago during a home renovation hell, and I've never quite recovered. Also, any place that sells rat poison is simply not my natural environment.
I'm good at a few things, too.
I make a mean brownie. That's not bragging; it's just a fact.
I am good at getting my kids up at 2 am to watch shooting stars in a field across the street because somebody, somewhere posted about some massive meteor shower. Or maybe it wasn't a meteor shower. Maybe it's called something else. It doesn't really matter. What matters is we laid on our backs on an itchy blanket and looked up as tiny blinks of light shot across the sky, and (shhh, don't tell anyone I said this about anything scientific) it was sort of thrilling. For me, at least. My kids were complaining that ants were biting them and they were scared. They'll thank me later.
I'm good at...here is where I should come up with something to redeem my Home Depot phobia, but I can't. I could say that last week I took my kids and a friend to that cutesy little "First Saturday" craft project that Home Depot hosts. Which is supposed to be fun, but they actually expect us parents to help our kids make these adorable projects. Things that involves hammers and nails. First of all, giving my 7 year old a hammer is like offering fireworks to ISIS. Second, all these dads are sitting around zen-like, patiently helping their children to carefully guide the nails in correctly. Me, on the other hand? I pull up a paint bucket stool, immediately all 3 kids I've brought need me to open their craft kit, the nails go everywhere, nobody can understand the directions (and by "nobody" I mean me, because they aren't even bothering) and I start to sweat and finally blurt out, "Screw it boys, we're using the wood glue." So yeah. Not good.
But. I am sort of good at finding things funny. This may not seem like much of a skill, but it certainly makes life more entertaining. And then I tend to write ridiculous nonsense that if I'm lucky, sometimes makes people laugh. And believe me, I know it's mostly nonsense. I'm not posting any deep thoughts; I haven't had one in about ten years and there are plenty of others far better at conveying depth and important things than me.
I just like to make people laugh.
I will post silly things on Twitter, on Facebook, in instant messages to coworkers or in texts to friends. And I know it's shallow, but life is already deep enough. I mean, glass half full - we're not in Syria. But glass half empty - life can feel hard sometimes. If I can make someone laugh with me and we can forget our problems for a moment, it's worth everything.
So yes, if I go to the Miss Texas pageant with my neighbor and we giggle hysterically while drinking champagne, I will write about it. If another friend and I are having a hard day, and Twitter serves me up a book cover for -- I'm not making this up -- bigfoot erotica (yes, it's a thing), I will make a bunch of really immature jokes about "Sasquatica" until we giggle like we're twelve. Which, is frankly, about the emotional age of any one of us, at any given time.
If I attempt a hideous new diet and fail, I will write about it (I'm still bitter about the beets, by the way). And if rats eat my car? Please. If you can't see the humor in that, you're not even trying.
Occasionally I slip and post something above my pay grade. Like politics, which I keep swearing I won't ever comment about in public anymore, but to me it's like this giant Kardashian-esque train wreck and it's soooooo tempting sometimes. But I'm working on it.
I might have a few other things to work on, truth be told. Change is hard, and I'm not particularly good at it, though I am trying.
But one thing I will never change is trying to find the funny in the chaos that surrounds me. Because it's not going anywhere. I mean, come on. Rats.Ate.My.Subaru. That should go on my tombstone.
And in my humble, silly, perhaps ridiculous opinion,sometimes all you can do in this life is make the choice to laugh or cry.
And crying? Ruins my mascara.
I'm not good at making pancakes from scratch. Which is ridiculously unfair because my mother, my father and my brother are all effortlessly Martha Stewartish at pancake-making. But if I don't use a mix, mine are like hockey pucks.
I'm not good at chemistry, or any science for that matter. It's not that I haven't tried. Ok... I tried to understand chemistry, by the time I made it to astronomy, I was a lost cause. In my defense, when people hold class in a dark room with reclining seats, they should not expect me to stay awake.
I'm not good at anything that involves a trip to Home Depot. It's not that I'm incompetent; it's just that I spent way too many hours searching for the "right" wall sconce, counting stacks of backsplash tiles and a thousand other obnoxious tasks ten years ago during a home renovation hell, and I've never quite recovered. Also, any place that sells rat poison is simply not my natural environment.
I'm good at a few things, too.
I make a mean brownie. That's not bragging; it's just a fact.
I am good at getting my kids up at 2 am to watch shooting stars in a field across the street because somebody, somewhere posted about some massive meteor shower. Or maybe it wasn't a meteor shower. Maybe it's called something else. It doesn't really matter. What matters is we laid on our backs on an itchy blanket and looked up as tiny blinks of light shot across the sky, and (shhh, don't tell anyone I said this about anything scientific) it was sort of thrilling. For me, at least. My kids were complaining that ants were biting them and they were scared. They'll thank me later.
I'm good at...here is where I should come up with something to redeem my Home Depot phobia, but I can't. I could say that last week I took my kids and a friend to that cutesy little "First Saturday" craft project that Home Depot hosts. Which is supposed to be fun, but they actually expect us parents to help our kids make these adorable projects. Things that involves hammers and nails. First of all, giving my 7 year old a hammer is like offering fireworks to ISIS. Second, all these dads are sitting around zen-like, patiently helping their children to carefully guide the nails in correctly. Me, on the other hand? I pull up a paint bucket stool, immediately all 3 kids I've brought need me to open their craft kit, the nails go everywhere, nobody can understand the directions (and by "nobody" I mean me, because they aren't even bothering) and I start to sweat and finally blurt out, "Screw it boys, we're using the wood glue." So yeah. Not good.
But. I am sort of good at finding things funny. This may not seem like much of a skill, but it certainly makes life more entertaining. And then I tend to write ridiculous nonsense that if I'm lucky, sometimes makes people laugh. And believe me, I know it's mostly nonsense. I'm not posting any deep thoughts; I haven't had one in about ten years and there are plenty of others far better at conveying depth and important things than me.
I just like to make people laugh.
I will post silly things on Twitter, on Facebook, in instant messages to coworkers or in texts to friends. And I know it's shallow, but life is already deep enough. I mean, glass half full - we're not in Syria. But glass half empty - life can feel hard sometimes. If I can make someone laugh with me and we can forget our problems for a moment, it's worth everything.
So yes, if I go to the Miss Texas pageant with my neighbor and we giggle hysterically while drinking champagne, I will write about it. If another friend and I are having a hard day, and Twitter serves me up a book cover for -- I'm not making this up -- bigfoot erotica (yes, it's a thing), I will make a bunch of really immature jokes about "Sasquatica" until we giggle like we're twelve. Which, is frankly, about the emotional age of any one of us, at any given time.
If I attempt a hideous new diet and fail, I will write about it (I'm still bitter about the beets, by the way). And if rats eat my car? Please. If you can't see the humor in that, you're not even trying.
Occasionally I slip and post something above my pay grade. Like politics, which I keep swearing I won't ever comment about in public anymore, but to me it's like this giant Kardashian-esque train wreck and it's soooooo tempting sometimes. But I'm working on it.
I might have a few other things to work on, truth be told. Change is hard, and I'm not particularly good at it, though I am trying.
But one thing I will never change is trying to find the funny in the chaos that surrounds me. Because it's not going anywhere. I mean, come on. Rats.Ate.My.Subaru. That should go on my tombstone.
And in my humble, silly, perhaps ridiculous opinion,sometimes all you can do in this life is make the choice to laugh or cry.
And crying? Ruins my mascara.
Wednesday, August 3, 2016
Daisy
I'm not a dog person. It's not that I don't like animals; I just don't care that much one way or the other about being around them. I don't even really like cute videos of kittens. Incidentally, this is why cats love me. I suspect they have a grudging respect for anything that cares as little for animal affection as they do.
So when my husband and kids began campaigning for a dog, I held them off as long as possible. Because I knew. I knew who would walk and feed and clean up after the dog. Oh, they all said they'd do it. "I'll clean up after her, Mom, I promise." I knew better. But it was only a matter of time.
One day I gave in and the next thing I knew, my husband had brought home a seven-week-old golden retriever puppy. Even I had to admit she was cute. My son named her Daisy. It suited her.
That first night around 11 p.m., when she cried in the makeshift kennel we'd made in our master bathroom, I sat on the floor and petted her until she fell asleep. And then I did it again around 1. The third time, I just scooped her up, took her into the bed and put her on my chest. Because she was a baby. And that's what I did with my babies.
Little did I know that letting her fall asleep on me would be my undoing. Because then, of course, the dog thought I was her mother. She followed me everywhere. And she insisted on sleeping on the floor, next to my side of the bed. I thought she'd grow out of it, and she would learn to sleep in my son's room. But she never did.
She got bigger. We moved into a house with a pool. As much as I do not like cute kitten videos, I do like swimming. Turns out, so did the dog. She would swim back and forth, knocking into the kids and scratching them with her paws. She never scratched me. All I had to do was shake my head and hold up my hand and she would turn around and paddle in another direction.
I got sick last summer and couldn't make it to the gym. So I started taking her for walks in the early morning, while it was still dark. She would always lunge after rabbits, sometimes tripping me over the leash, and I would scold her. "You're never going to catch one, you know," I told her. She never listened.
After those walks, she and I would head straight through the house and onto the back patio. I would flip on the pool light, which made the entire pool glow green. I'd go for a swim, and she would watch at the edge, dipping her head into the water for a drink. Sometimes she would join me. We could spend 20 minutes swimming laps, side by side. It was dark and hot outside, but the water was the perfect temperature. Eventually, my phone alarm would go off, and I would get out. So would she. I'd pour food into her bowl, and tell her to wait for me downstairs. But nine times out of ten, I'd get out of the shower and she'd be waiting for me in my room. Sometimes, the kids would have climbed into my bed, and she'd have joined them. "Dogs don't belong on the bed," I'd tell her. She didn't listen to that, either.
This past spring, I started getting ready for a half marathon. Some people would say "training" but that implies a lot more work than I put into it. I increased the length of our walks and she seemed to like the extra time. A few months later, I decided to do another one. This time, I was determined to actually run some of it, instead of just walking. So I tried running with Daisy. The first couple of times she kept right up with me. But then she started slowing down, panting. I chalked it up to the heat, since it was already 85 degrees at 5 am. And the extra 15 pounds she was carrying, not because of the food we actually fed her -- but the food she snatched off the kids' breakfast plates. Or the pizza slices she would steal off the counter if you turned around for even a minute. She would eat anything. I saw her eat a DVD once. It was a Lego Star Wars movie, which doesn't even sound the least bit edible. But she didn't care.
Then about a month ago, she fell down the stairs. I heard the noise, but I didn't actually see what happened so I assumed she'd slid down on her paws. She walked a little funny afterwards, like maybe she had sprained something. Then a week later, it happened again. Only this time I was standing right there and saw her stumble, lose her balance and then watched her entire 90 pound body flip over and over, smacking the stairs before I had a chance to reach for her.
My husband took her to the vet. Ear infection was the initial diagnosis. But her head was tilted, her body was cockeyed and crooked, and she was having trouble walking. She went back to the vet. "Neurological" was the diagnosis, so we took her to a second vet. Inner ear infection. More drugs. We were about to go out of town -- my husband and the boys first, and then, four days later, me. We arranged for neighbors and a pet sitter and hoped for the best.
She moved very little during the day. But she kept trying to go up the stairs at night. I realized she was going up to find me, at bedtime. So I slept on the couch downstairs for a few nights. She curled up on a dog bed next to the couch. Then everyone else left for vacation, and it was just me and Daisy. She sat next to me that first night, when I was thrilled to have the house to myself for the first time in ten years and spent the evening reading trashy tabloids. Daisy tried more than once to lick my glass of Chardonnay. Guess swimming wasn't the only thing we had in common.
She kept me company for four nights. She was there when I sang Madonna way too loudly for someone alone in the house. She was there when my girlfriends and I stayed up too late drinking Prosecco. She was there the night I kept waking up, with too many thoughts in my head, and jumped in the pool at 4 am. She could barely walk, but she made it to the side and hung her head over the edge. She just looked at me, as if she knew what I was thinking. And liked me anyway.
Then I left for vacation. My husband returned two days later and reported she seemed okay at first. Then she got worse. The night before the kids and I came home, he took her to a vet hospital on the advice of the specialist our vet had recommended.
The next morning, I got up at 330 am. We had an early morning flight. We landed, tried to eat some lunch, and he told the kids something was wrong with Daisy. Then we went to the hospital. She was unconscious. I talked to her, petted her, but all she did was twitch her leg. My oldest son started crying. I told him maybe she was dreaming about swimming with us. I hoped it was true.
Seemed like we were there for hours, waiting to talk to the doctor. Cancer, or maybe meningitis, he said. Either way, the problem was in her brain, and the options didn't really sound like options, but like lengthy, painful things you do to delay the inevitable. We told the kids to say goodbye, but by this point, they just wanted to leave. "I don't want to hear anymore, I just want to go."
I wanted to stay.
They put a soft pad and blanket on the floor of an exam room. They wheeled her in on a cart and lifted her, placing her on the pad. The social worker asked me a bunch of questions and kept saying stuff about how hard these decisions were. She was all of about 22 and she was very sweet, but I just wanted her to leave. Because I loathe letting anyone see me cry, and because I wanted Daisy all to myself one last time. The social worker finally left, giving me a button that I was to push when I was ready for the doctor to come in and give her the medicine.
I petted Daisy, who still had not woken. I told her I was sorry for getting annoyed every time she tripped me on the leash. I said I hoped the rabbits were way slower in dog heaven. And then I hoped that dog heaven was even a thing. I sat there for a while. And I finally pushed the button.
The doctor came in. He was very nice and explained how the first shot was a sedative and the second would stop her heart. He gave her the sedative. I kept my hand on her neck. I told her I loved her. He gave her the second shot. Then he checked her heart and told me it had stopped.
I sat there with her for a while, again. I just couldn't seem to make myself leave. But eventually I got up and walked out of the room. I sat in the lobby, grateful for the sunglasses hiding my puffy eyes while I waited for a ride And then I was grateful that I didn't get a chatty Uber driver.
Later that night, after I sat with my kids while they cried themselves to sleep, I went outside by myself. I drank some wine. And I swam. But it didn't feel right, without Daisy there, sitting by the side of the pool with her head hanging over the edge.
The next day, everyone started crying all over again. And then they played video games. Because that's what boys do. I unpacked, unloaded the dishwasher and put away her clean food and water dish before anyone saw them and started crying again. I looked outside. The sun was too bright and it was already hot. I don't really care that much for swimming in the daylight; I prefer the night, when it's quiet and dark. But I couldn't think of anything else to do.
So I put on my swimsuit. I went out back and looked at the cushion under the table, where Daisy used to nap. Looked at the edge of the pool where she used to sit and dunk her head. Put on my sunglasses to hide my still-puffy eyes (because grief? Is not a good look on me).
I thought about all the times she'd followed me out here, followed me everywhere, really. How I could be at my lowest point and she would just look at me, as if to say, it's ok. You feed me, I'm yours. It's that simple.
I thought about watching the vet give her that shot. And I thought about putting her on my chest when she was seven weeks old.
And then I got in the pool. And I swam.
So when my husband and kids began campaigning for a dog, I held them off as long as possible. Because I knew. I knew who would walk and feed and clean up after the dog. Oh, they all said they'd do it. "I'll clean up after her, Mom, I promise." I knew better. But it was only a matter of time.
One day I gave in and the next thing I knew, my husband had brought home a seven-week-old golden retriever puppy. Even I had to admit she was cute. My son named her Daisy. It suited her.
That first night around 11 p.m., when she cried in the makeshift kennel we'd made in our master bathroom, I sat on the floor and petted her until she fell asleep. And then I did it again around 1. The third time, I just scooped her up, took her into the bed and put her on my chest. Because she was a baby. And that's what I did with my babies.
Little did I know that letting her fall asleep on me would be my undoing. Because then, of course, the dog thought I was her mother. She followed me everywhere. And she insisted on sleeping on the floor, next to my side of the bed. I thought she'd grow out of it, and she would learn to sleep in my son's room. But she never did.
She got bigger. We moved into a house with a pool. As much as I do not like cute kitten videos, I do like swimming. Turns out, so did the dog. She would swim back and forth, knocking into the kids and scratching them with her paws. She never scratched me. All I had to do was shake my head and hold up my hand and she would turn around and paddle in another direction.
I got sick last summer and couldn't make it to the gym. So I started taking her for walks in the early morning, while it was still dark. She would always lunge after rabbits, sometimes tripping me over the leash, and I would scold her. "You're never going to catch one, you know," I told her. She never listened.
After those walks, she and I would head straight through the house and onto the back patio. I would flip on the pool light, which made the entire pool glow green. I'd go for a swim, and she would watch at the edge, dipping her head into the water for a drink. Sometimes she would join me. We could spend 20 minutes swimming laps, side by side. It was dark and hot outside, but the water was the perfect temperature. Eventually, my phone alarm would go off, and I would get out. So would she. I'd pour food into her bowl, and tell her to wait for me downstairs. But nine times out of ten, I'd get out of the shower and she'd be waiting for me in my room. Sometimes, the kids would have climbed into my bed, and she'd have joined them. "Dogs don't belong on the bed," I'd tell her. She didn't listen to that, either.
This past spring, I started getting ready for a half marathon. Some people would say "training" but that implies a lot more work than I put into it. I increased the length of our walks and she seemed to like the extra time. A few months later, I decided to do another one. This time, I was determined to actually run some of it, instead of just walking. So I tried running with Daisy. The first couple of times she kept right up with me. But then she started slowing down, panting. I chalked it up to the heat, since it was already 85 degrees at 5 am. And the extra 15 pounds she was carrying, not because of the food we actually fed her -- but the food she snatched off the kids' breakfast plates. Or the pizza slices she would steal off the counter if you turned around for even a minute. She would eat anything. I saw her eat a DVD once. It was a Lego Star Wars movie, which doesn't even sound the least bit edible. But she didn't care.
Then about a month ago, she fell down the stairs. I heard the noise, but I didn't actually see what happened so I assumed she'd slid down on her paws. She walked a little funny afterwards, like maybe she had sprained something. Then a week later, it happened again. Only this time I was standing right there and saw her stumble, lose her balance and then watched her entire 90 pound body flip over and over, smacking the stairs before I had a chance to reach for her.
My husband took her to the vet. Ear infection was the initial diagnosis. But her head was tilted, her body was cockeyed and crooked, and she was having trouble walking. She went back to the vet. "Neurological" was the diagnosis, so we took her to a second vet. Inner ear infection. More drugs. We were about to go out of town -- my husband and the boys first, and then, four days later, me. We arranged for neighbors and a pet sitter and hoped for the best.
She moved very little during the day. But she kept trying to go up the stairs at night. I realized she was going up to find me, at bedtime. So I slept on the couch downstairs for a few nights. She curled up on a dog bed next to the couch. Then everyone else left for vacation, and it was just me and Daisy. She sat next to me that first night, when I was thrilled to have the house to myself for the first time in ten years and spent the evening reading trashy tabloids. Daisy tried more than once to lick my glass of Chardonnay. Guess swimming wasn't the only thing we had in common.
She kept me company for four nights. She was there when I sang Madonna way too loudly for someone alone in the house. She was there when my girlfriends and I stayed up too late drinking Prosecco. She was there the night I kept waking up, with too many thoughts in my head, and jumped in the pool at 4 am. She could barely walk, but she made it to the side and hung her head over the edge. She just looked at me, as if she knew what I was thinking. And liked me anyway.
Then I left for vacation. My husband returned two days later and reported she seemed okay at first. Then she got worse. The night before the kids and I came home, he took her to a vet hospital on the advice of the specialist our vet had recommended.
The next morning, I got up at 330 am. We had an early morning flight. We landed, tried to eat some lunch, and he told the kids something was wrong with Daisy. Then we went to the hospital. She was unconscious. I talked to her, petted her, but all she did was twitch her leg. My oldest son started crying. I told him maybe she was dreaming about swimming with us. I hoped it was true.
Seemed like we were there for hours, waiting to talk to the doctor. Cancer, or maybe meningitis, he said. Either way, the problem was in her brain, and the options didn't really sound like options, but like lengthy, painful things you do to delay the inevitable. We told the kids to say goodbye, but by this point, they just wanted to leave. "I don't want to hear anymore, I just want to go."
I wanted to stay.
They put a soft pad and blanket on the floor of an exam room. They wheeled her in on a cart and lifted her, placing her on the pad. The social worker asked me a bunch of questions and kept saying stuff about how hard these decisions were. She was all of about 22 and she was very sweet, but I just wanted her to leave. Because I loathe letting anyone see me cry, and because I wanted Daisy all to myself one last time. The social worker finally left, giving me a button that I was to push when I was ready for the doctor to come in and give her the medicine.
I petted Daisy, who still had not woken. I told her I was sorry for getting annoyed every time she tripped me on the leash. I said I hoped the rabbits were way slower in dog heaven. And then I hoped that dog heaven was even a thing. I sat there for a while. And I finally pushed the button.
The doctor came in. He was very nice and explained how the first shot was a sedative and the second would stop her heart. He gave her the sedative. I kept my hand on her neck. I told her I loved her. He gave her the second shot. Then he checked her heart and told me it had stopped.
I sat there with her for a while, again. I just couldn't seem to make myself leave. But eventually I got up and walked out of the room. I sat in the lobby, grateful for the sunglasses hiding my puffy eyes while I waited for a ride And then I was grateful that I didn't get a chatty Uber driver.
Later that night, after I sat with my kids while they cried themselves to sleep, I went outside by myself. I drank some wine. And I swam. But it didn't feel right, without Daisy there, sitting by the side of the pool with her head hanging over the edge.
The next day, everyone started crying all over again. And then they played video games. Because that's what boys do. I unpacked, unloaded the dishwasher and put away her clean food and water dish before anyone saw them and started crying again. I looked outside. The sun was too bright and it was already hot. I don't really care that much for swimming in the daylight; I prefer the night, when it's quiet and dark. But I couldn't think of anything else to do.
So I put on my swimsuit. I went out back and looked at the cushion under the table, where Daisy used to nap. Looked at the edge of the pool where she used to sit and dunk her head. Put on my sunglasses to hide my still-puffy eyes (because grief? Is not a good look on me).
I thought about all the times she'd followed me out here, followed me everywhere, really. How I could be at my lowest point and she would just look at me, as if to say, it's ok. You feed me, I'm yours. It's that simple.
I thought about watching the vet give her that shot. And I thought about putting her on my chest when she was seven weeks old.
And then I got in the pool. And I swam.
Sunday, July 3, 2016
Of Tiaras and Texas
As many of you may remember, last year's Fourth of July post detailed my family's hideous adventure at Kaboom Town. Well, fool me once, fireworks, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. This year, I chose instead to pay tribute to our nation's birthday in true Texas fashion -- with pomp, circumstance and hair extensions.
In other words ... the Miss Texas Pageant.
#####
It started, like so many things do nowadays, with a text. "Want to go to the Miss Texas pageant?" asked my neighbor Carrie, about a month ago.
"Sure," I said, because, really? Ball gowns, big hair, and batons ... how could I possibly say no?
I'll admit to watching my share of Miss America as a little girl...every year, Mom and I would make popcorn and hunker down in front of the TV for a night of sequins and swimsuits. I "may" have posed in front of the bathroom mirror and given an imaginary speech..which for some reason always started with "I'd like to thank the Academy" instead of, "my greatest wish is for world peace." Which is funny because I've avoided the stage since I was 10 and singing with my dad's band, forgot the words, ran offstage and hid in a ladies' room. But that, as they say, is another story.
As an adult, I hadn't watched a pageant in years. Until last night, during the Uber ride to the restaurant when Carrie brought up footage of Miss South Carolina's answer from the 2007 Miss Teen USA pageant. "Such as the Iraq" will forever hold a special place in my heart as the Best.Worst.Answer.Ever.
This pretty much set the tone for the night, which had begun with several giggly texts back and forth while getting dressed. I mean, obviously we had to chat about what to wear. Because duh. When one attends the Miss Texas pageant, one must dress accordingly.
After exclaiming over each others' dresses and shoes, Carrie asked her husband to take a picture of us for posterity. Because if there was ever a night for ridiculous late night selfies, this was going to be it - best to attempt a "normal" picture before the drinking started.
We ubered over to Jasper's. As we got out of the car, Carrie said, "I just hope there's at least one baton twirler tonight."
"Me, too," I replied.
"And puppets," she added.
"Oooh, do you think?" I asked, giddy with anticipation. "That would be amazing. And possibly a dramatic reading from Gone With the Wind. Because that would be epic."
Giggling, we made our way into the restaurant. As we took our seats, the waiter greeted us and asked how we were. Carrie asked him the same, to which he replied, "Actually, I'm sublime." Or maybe he said he was "supine." Or possibly "sub-prime." Basically, I've no real idea what he said.
He asked if we were celebrating anything. "Miss Texas!" Carrie said, and he looked surprised for maybe half a second, and then he recovered and said, "Rock on. Do you want to start with some Prosecco?"
I don't think I need to tell you what we said to that. Because the only acceptable answer when someone asks if you want Prosecco -- is yes.
As he walked away, I whispered, "did he say he was sublime?"
"I don't know, I couldn't understand him!" Carrie whispered back.
"I think he just made up a word!" I whispered.
And then we giggled. Again.
Our bubbly came and we ordered the blue cheese potato chips. Our waiter described several specials and something very complicated the chef was doing to a pork tenderloin that involved sous-vide and sauerkraut. I'm not really sure what all that was about, but it sounded very Iron Chef. Only German. And sauerkraut? Is so not pageant food.
We asked for a recommendation, since we wanted to split a salad and entree. (Hello, we were about to watch anorexic 20 year olds, we had to drink .. ahem, I mean "watch" our calories). He suggested the surf and turf, which was medium rare tuna and steak. I'm not a big fan of fish that hasn't been cooked, mainly because A) I grew up on beer batter and B) It's fish and C) I prefer my tuna in a can. But I do have to say -- everything was really good. Once I got past the fact that the tuna was purple.
We asked the waiter to take a picture. It looked hideous. We asked him to take another. Also hideous. But we thanked him anyway, and I said (still giggling), "I bet we're the most ridiculous customers you have all night."
To his credit he said, "Nah, you're just having a good time."
And yes. We were. We tried to take a selfie before we left, but the lighting was just all wrong. So, my restaurant review in a nutshell:
Jasper's has excellent service and food.
But terribly unflattering lighting for pictures.
You're welcome.
Dinner finished, we headed to the Eisemann Center, and discussed perfume with the uber driver on the way. Because of course we did.
And then we opened the door and entered a pink and blonde cloud of hair extensions, gowns and sparkles, the likes of which I doubt I'll ever experience again in my lifetime. Family members clutched giant photos of their contestants. Past Miss Texas winners walked the red carpet. And little girls wore giant, fluffy white dresses that looked like some bizarre quinceanera. For ten-year-olds.
"Wouldn't it be great if they had one of those things where we could stick our heads in it and have crowns?" Carrie asked, because if there was ever a place for a rhinestoned photo booth, this was it.
We headed straight for the bar. Obviously. And ordered champagne. "Would you like to purchase a commemorative Miss Texas champagne flute?"
Why, yes. Yes we would. As we sipped our champagne, we asked a man wearing a lovely plaid jacket to take our photo. "Full body shot?" he asked. I had to smile. You know you're in pageant country when the men wear Madras and ask about your photo preferences.
We raised our glasses and as I took another sip, I mused, "I wonder if they'd just sell us a bottle? And would it be wrong to take that back to our seats?" Because a night like this? Was not a one-glass event.
We, along with our commemorative flutes, made our way to our seats -- which, thanks to Carrie, were amazing. Box seats right in the middle of the balcony, for the perfect view of the pag-sanity that was about to begin. Lights dimmed. We "might" have squealed in excitement. And yes, obligatory opening ceremony selfies.
And so it began. Miss Texas 2015 took the stage, lit only in profile as she turned, struck a pose and then began to swivel back and forth. "OMG, interpretive dance!" I whispered, "this is AWESOME!" Then Demi Lovato's "Complicated" blasted out as a slew of red sequin-clad ladies strolled across the stage. They joined Miss Texas 2015 in a choregraphed dance involving lots of snapping fingers and wrists. Think, "talk to the hand" only it was more like "talk to my pageant-walking sequin-wearing fabulousness." Because the pageant walk? Was in full force. If you don't know what I'm talking about, might I suggest this helpful guide to perfecting your pageant strut.
Our host was Miss Texas 2012 and she regaled us with the glorious history of Miss Texas. She introduced us to the Lone Star princesses, those little girls in white I had spotted in the lobby. Because dressing prepubescent girls in sparkly wedding dresses and false eyelashes? Is not creepy. At. All.
Then she announced a very special guest -- Miss Texas 1966. A video tribute played, showcasing her evening gown competition walk and her talent.
Guess what her talent was?
A dramatic reading from ...wait for it ... Gone with the Wind.
"As God is mah witness, I'll never be hungry again."
I almost spilled my drink as Carrie and I high-fived. Because Scarlett O'Hara? Is one of my all-time favorite heroines. "I can't think about this now. I'll think about it tomorrow." That phrase can save your life.
Between GWTD and the Lone Star princesses, they announced the 12 semifinalists, we met the contestants and I went downstairs for another glass of champagne. Because the swimsuit competition was coming up, and clearly, that required ... nay, demanded, alcoholic accompaniment.
Each of the contestants pageant-strutted down the runway in a biniki and a teensy little wrap, which they whipped off dramatically so we could all see their cellulite-free thighs and derrieres. All I can say is there were a lot of ab crunches that went into those bodies. And not much food.
Then we had evening wear. The ladies were grouped by the color of their dresses, because apparently most of them went for black, blue, red or white. There was one yellow gown and one sort of blue with gold side panels. Don't worry, I'm not going to wax poetic about fashion. Because I love a good gown as much as anyone, but let's face it. We weren't here to see the dresses. We were here to see one thing.
The talent competition.
I won't describe all the talents -- but I feel compelled to share a few of the highlights. The 90-second speed painting of Elvis was a personal favorite. As were the batons, because yes, more than one lady brought her twirlers. Miss Plano, I believe, was the best of the bunch. Three batons, or was it four? I can't remember -- it was all a blur of sparkles and sticks flung high into the air.
There were dancers. A celloist. (Note: don't play the cello for your pageant talent. Just don't. Especially if you have to follow a baton twirler. They will crush you). And yes, there was a ventriloquist. Carrie got her puppets! Fancy, dancing and singing puppets, no less!
At intermission, we both went downstairs. I headed for the ladies' room while Carrie held our drinks. When I finally pushed through the crowds to find Carrie (it was a pageant, for God's sake; of course there was a line for the ladies' room) I couldn't find her. Finally, I spied her near the doors, chatting with a cop. Who seemed really interested in knowing what she did. And where she worked. And where she lived. (Officer Stalker much?)
Then she spilled champagne on the floor and he joked, "Who's driving?" Ha ha ha, good one, Officer. Maybe you can give us a ride home after. Or ... maybe not.
As we left our new law enforcement friend, Carrie said, "did I really just spill champagne on the floor? In front of a police officer?"
"Yes, but I'm pretty sure he didn't care. I think he kind of liked you."
Giggle. Giggle.
Still snorting, we found our seats once again, this time for the interview portion of the night (AKA, Such as the Iraq). The first question was whether immigrants faced favoritism in this country. Or maybe it was racism. I couldn't really hear. All I know is the contestant used a word in her answer that I can think was meant to be "xenophobia" only it came out more like "funaphobia" which I'm pretty sure is not a real word. And if it is, how sad is that -- I mean, who has a phobia about fun?
Two different contestants were asked to "imagine you are moderating the first debate between Trump and Clinton, and what would you ask?" I believe it was Miss Park Cities who said she would ask Hillary Clinton about empowering women and how she was making history. That didn't sit well with the crowd, who booed and hissed, except for one person who cheered. Oh wait. That was me. Spoiler Alert: guess who didn't win Miss Texas?
Our mayor took the stage and talked about helping the contestants build houses. Or maybe they fed the homeless. IDK. They did something good for the community. I wasn't paying much attention at that point. My feet, in their 3-inch platform heels, were kind of hurting. Also? I was almost out of champagne.
Finally, the moment we'd all been waiting for arrived. The runners up were announced and then... drumroll ... Miss Plano was crowned Miss Texas 2016. She won a pretty small scholarship and the use of an Infiniti for a year. If you ask me, that's kind of a raw deal for years of starvation and hair extensions. She did get a standing ovation and a ginormous bouquet of yellow roses. So you know, there's that.
We decided it was too early to end the evening, so we walked over to the Renaissance Hotel for a drink. Where the bartender looked so young, I'm pretty sure I could have given birth to him. Which is kind of euww, so let's not do that math.
We both ordered the same wine. And apparently, they only had one glass left of that particular wine. But I think we scared him, so he wouldn't come back and tell us -- we had to flag down another bartender who broke the news. And looked nervous telling us. What did she think? We'd start a fight over cabernet? Then again, they had been hosting pageant moms all week so maybe they had reason to fear. I offered to have a different wine. Problem solved.
As we were drinking, a man in a sequined jacket (yes, you heard me right) leaned over the bar. Carrie complimented him on his jacket and he explained that he'd had it flown in from L.A. Then he introduced himself as the official pageant florist. That's right, people. We met a celebrity. Sort of. Not really at all, but whatever.
So of course, we had to tell him how much we loved the flowers and then he told us how he really wanted to do a more modern look but with the traditional nod to Texas via yellow roses, and we all agreed that baby's breath was so last century ... there was so much estrogen in that conversation, I'm pretty sure we could have reset the menstrual cycles of every woman within a 50-yard radius. He gave us his card. You know, for the next time we hold a pageant in our living room and need flowers.
We knew it was pretty much impossible to top the celeb florist encounter, so at this point we decided to call it a night. We ubered home, I took our commemorative glasses home to wash, and we giggled one more time over the evening.
Because yes, swimsuit competitions are insane.
So are beauty contests in general.
But nonstop giggling like you're twelve with a good friend and enjoying the spectacle of batons, speed-painting Elvis and yes, dramatic readings of Gone With the Wind?
Best.Mom's Night.Ever.
In other words ... the Miss Texas Pageant.
#####
It started, like so many things do nowadays, with a text. "Want to go to the Miss Texas pageant?" asked my neighbor Carrie, about a month ago.
"Sure," I said, because, really? Ball gowns, big hair, and batons ... how could I possibly say no?
I'll admit to watching my share of Miss America as a little girl...every year, Mom and I would make popcorn and hunker down in front of the TV for a night of sequins and swimsuits. I "may" have posed in front of the bathroom mirror and given an imaginary speech..which for some reason always started with "I'd like to thank the Academy" instead of, "my greatest wish is for world peace." Which is funny because I've avoided the stage since I was 10 and singing with my dad's band, forgot the words, ran offstage and hid in a ladies' room. But that, as they say, is another story.
As an adult, I hadn't watched a pageant in years. Until last night, during the Uber ride to the restaurant when Carrie brought up footage of Miss South Carolina's answer from the 2007 Miss Teen USA pageant. "Such as the Iraq" will forever hold a special place in my heart as the Best.Worst.Answer.Ever.
This pretty much set the tone for the night, which had begun with several giggly texts back and forth while getting dressed. I mean, obviously we had to chat about what to wear. Because duh. When one attends the Miss Texas pageant, one must dress accordingly.
After exclaiming over each others' dresses and shoes, Carrie asked her husband to take a picture of us for posterity. Because if there was ever a night for ridiculous late night selfies, this was going to be it - best to attempt a "normal" picture before the drinking started.
We ubered over to Jasper's. As we got out of the car, Carrie said, "I just hope there's at least one baton twirler tonight."
"Me, too," I replied.
"And puppets," she added.
"Oooh, do you think?" I asked, giddy with anticipation. "That would be amazing. And possibly a dramatic reading from Gone With the Wind. Because that would be epic."
Giggling, we made our way into the restaurant. As we took our seats, the waiter greeted us and asked how we were. Carrie asked him the same, to which he replied, "Actually, I'm sublime." Or maybe he said he was "supine." Or possibly "sub-prime." Basically, I've no real idea what he said.
He asked if we were celebrating anything. "Miss Texas!" Carrie said, and he looked surprised for maybe half a second, and then he recovered and said, "Rock on. Do you want to start with some Prosecco?"
I don't think I need to tell you what we said to that. Because the only acceptable answer when someone asks if you want Prosecco -- is yes.
As he walked away, I whispered, "did he say he was sublime?"
"I don't know, I couldn't understand him!" Carrie whispered back.
"I think he just made up a word!" I whispered.
And then we giggled. Again.
Our bubbly came and we ordered the blue cheese potato chips. Our waiter described several specials and something very complicated the chef was doing to a pork tenderloin that involved sous-vide and sauerkraut. I'm not really sure what all that was about, but it sounded very Iron Chef. Only German. And sauerkraut? Is so not pageant food.
We asked for a recommendation, since we wanted to split a salad and entree. (Hello, we were about to watch anorexic 20 year olds, we had to drink .. ahem, I mean "watch" our calories). He suggested the surf and turf, which was medium rare tuna and steak. I'm not a big fan of fish that hasn't been cooked, mainly because A) I grew up on beer batter and B) It's fish and C) I prefer my tuna in a can. But I do have to say -- everything was really good. Once I got past the fact that the tuna was purple.
We asked the waiter to take a picture. It looked hideous. We asked him to take another. Also hideous. But we thanked him anyway, and I said (still giggling), "I bet we're the most ridiculous customers you have all night."
To his credit he said, "Nah, you're just having a good time."
And yes. We were. We tried to take a selfie before we left, but the lighting was just all wrong. So, my restaurant review in a nutshell:
Jasper's has excellent service and food.
But terribly unflattering lighting for pictures.
You're welcome.
Dinner finished, we headed to the Eisemann Center, and discussed perfume with the uber driver on the way. Because of course we did.
And then we opened the door and entered a pink and blonde cloud of hair extensions, gowns and sparkles, the likes of which I doubt I'll ever experience again in my lifetime. Family members clutched giant photos of their contestants. Past Miss Texas winners walked the red carpet. And little girls wore giant, fluffy white dresses that looked like some bizarre quinceanera. For ten-year-olds.
"Wouldn't it be great if they had one of those things where we could stick our heads in it and have crowns?" Carrie asked, because if there was ever a place for a rhinestoned photo booth, this was it.
We headed straight for the bar. Obviously. And ordered champagne. "Would you like to purchase a commemorative Miss Texas champagne flute?"
Why, yes. Yes we would. As we sipped our champagne, we asked a man wearing a lovely plaid jacket to take our photo. "Full body shot?" he asked. I had to smile. You know you're in pageant country when the men wear Madras and ask about your photo preferences.
We raised our glasses and as I took another sip, I mused, "I wonder if they'd just sell us a bottle? And would it be wrong to take that back to our seats?" Because a night like this? Was not a one-glass event.
We, along with our commemorative flutes, made our way to our seats -- which, thanks to Carrie, were amazing. Box seats right in the middle of the balcony, for the perfect view of the pag-sanity that was about to begin. Lights dimmed. We "might" have squealed in excitement. And yes, obligatory opening ceremony selfies.
And so it began. Miss Texas 2015 took the stage, lit only in profile as she turned, struck a pose and then began to swivel back and forth. "OMG, interpretive dance!" I whispered, "this is AWESOME!" Then Demi Lovato's "Complicated" blasted out as a slew of red sequin-clad ladies strolled across the stage. They joined Miss Texas 2015 in a choregraphed dance involving lots of snapping fingers and wrists. Think, "talk to the hand" only it was more like "talk to my pageant-walking sequin-wearing fabulousness." Because the pageant walk? Was in full force. If you don't know what I'm talking about, might I suggest this helpful guide to perfecting your pageant strut.
Our host was Miss Texas 2012 and she regaled us with the glorious history of Miss Texas. She introduced us to the Lone Star princesses, those little girls in white I had spotted in the lobby. Because dressing prepubescent girls in sparkly wedding dresses and false eyelashes? Is not creepy. At. All.
Then she announced a very special guest -- Miss Texas 1966. A video tribute played, showcasing her evening gown competition walk and her talent.
Guess what her talent was?
A dramatic reading from ...wait for it ... Gone with the Wind.
"As God is mah witness, I'll never be hungry again."
I almost spilled my drink as Carrie and I high-fived. Because Scarlett O'Hara? Is one of my all-time favorite heroines. "I can't think about this now. I'll think about it tomorrow." That phrase can save your life.
Between GWTD and the Lone Star princesses, they announced the 12 semifinalists, we met the contestants and I went downstairs for another glass of champagne. Because the swimsuit competition was coming up, and clearly, that required ... nay, demanded, alcoholic accompaniment.
Each of the contestants pageant-strutted down the runway in a biniki and a teensy little wrap, which they whipped off dramatically so we could all see their cellulite-free thighs and derrieres. All I can say is there were a lot of ab crunches that went into those bodies. And not much food.
Then we had evening wear. The ladies were grouped by the color of their dresses, because apparently most of them went for black, blue, red or white. There was one yellow gown and one sort of blue with gold side panels. Don't worry, I'm not going to wax poetic about fashion. Because I love a good gown as much as anyone, but let's face it. We weren't here to see the dresses. We were here to see one thing.
The talent competition.
I won't describe all the talents -- but I feel compelled to share a few of the highlights. The 90-second speed painting of Elvis was a personal favorite. As were the batons, because yes, more than one lady brought her twirlers. Miss Plano, I believe, was the best of the bunch. Three batons, or was it four? I can't remember -- it was all a blur of sparkles and sticks flung high into the air.
There were dancers. A celloist. (Note: don't play the cello for your pageant talent. Just don't. Especially if you have to follow a baton twirler. They will crush you). And yes, there was a ventriloquist. Carrie got her puppets! Fancy, dancing and singing puppets, no less!
At intermission, we both went downstairs. I headed for the ladies' room while Carrie held our drinks. When I finally pushed through the crowds to find Carrie (it was a pageant, for God's sake; of course there was a line for the ladies' room) I couldn't find her. Finally, I spied her near the doors, chatting with a cop. Who seemed really interested in knowing what she did. And where she worked. And where she lived. (Officer Stalker much?)
Then she spilled champagne on the floor and he joked, "Who's driving?" Ha ha ha, good one, Officer. Maybe you can give us a ride home after. Or ... maybe not.
As we left our new law enforcement friend, Carrie said, "did I really just spill champagne on the floor? In front of a police officer?"
"Yes, but I'm pretty sure he didn't care. I think he kind of liked you."
Giggle. Giggle.
Still snorting, we found our seats once again, this time for the interview portion of the night (AKA, Such as the Iraq). The first question was whether immigrants faced favoritism in this country. Or maybe it was racism. I couldn't really hear. All I know is the contestant used a word in her answer that I can think was meant to be "xenophobia" only it came out more like "funaphobia" which I'm pretty sure is not a real word. And if it is, how sad is that -- I mean, who has a phobia about fun?
Two different contestants were asked to "imagine you are moderating the first debate between Trump and Clinton, and what would you ask?" I believe it was Miss Park Cities who said she would ask Hillary Clinton about empowering women and how she was making history. That didn't sit well with the crowd, who booed and hissed, except for one person who cheered. Oh wait. That was me. Spoiler Alert: guess who didn't win Miss Texas?
Our mayor took the stage and talked about helping the contestants build houses. Or maybe they fed the homeless. IDK. They did something good for the community. I wasn't paying much attention at that point. My feet, in their 3-inch platform heels, were kind of hurting. Also? I was almost out of champagne.
Finally, the moment we'd all been waiting for arrived. The runners up were announced and then... drumroll ... Miss Plano was crowned Miss Texas 2016. She won a pretty small scholarship and the use of an Infiniti for a year. If you ask me, that's kind of a raw deal for years of starvation and hair extensions. She did get a standing ovation and a ginormous bouquet of yellow roses. So you know, there's that.
We decided it was too early to end the evening, so we walked over to the Renaissance Hotel for a drink. Where the bartender looked so young, I'm pretty sure I could have given birth to him. Which is kind of euww, so let's not do that math.
We both ordered the same wine. And apparently, they only had one glass left of that particular wine. But I think we scared him, so he wouldn't come back and tell us -- we had to flag down another bartender who broke the news. And looked nervous telling us. What did she think? We'd start a fight over cabernet? Then again, they had been hosting pageant moms all week so maybe they had reason to fear. I offered to have a different wine. Problem solved.
As we were drinking, a man in a sequined jacket (yes, you heard me right) leaned over the bar. Carrie complimented him on his jacket and he explained that he'd had it flown in from L.A. Then he introduced himself as the official pageant florist. That's right, people. We met a celebrity. Sort of. Not really at all, but whatever.
So of course, we had to tell him how much we loved the flowers and then he told us how he really wanted to do a more modern look but with the traditional nod to Texas via yellow roses, and we all agreed that baby's breath was so last century ... there was so much estrogen in that conversation, I'm pretty sure we could have reset the menstrual cycles of every woman within a 50-yard radius. He gave us his card. You know, for the next time we hold a pageant in our living room and need flowers.
We knew it was pretty much impossible to top the celeb florist encounter, so at this point we decided to call it a night. We ubered home, I took our commemorative glasses home to wash, and we giggled one more time over the evening.
Because yes, swimsuit competitions are insane.
So are beauty contests in general.
But nonstop giggling like you're twelve with a good friend and enjoying the spectacle of batons, speed-painting Elvis and yes, dramatic readings of Gone With the Wind?
Best.Mom's Night.Ever.
Thursday, June 2, 2016
Cherokee
So this originally appeared in Appalachian Heritage, like a million years ago. Just a little story about a girl, a boy and a hubcap...
####
At her cocktail parties, my mother could never resist telling everyone how I was conceived in the back seat of a '57 Chevy. "My little Katie is part Chevrolet," she'd say with that great laugh she's got.
This confused me when I was little and we were studying American Indians in school. When we learned about all the different tribes and their reservations, I got it in my head that Chevrolet was a tribe and the dealership where Daddy and Granddad worked was like the Chevrolet Reservation. My teacher said the Indians felt they had been cheated by the white people, and they spent a lot of time sitting around their reservations complaining. I'd been to the dealership enough to know that nearly everyone who came in there talked about being robbed blind, taken for all they were worth.
Sounded like the same thing to me.
My parents had no idea we were part of a tribe of car dealers until we took that vacation to Wilmington, North Carolina, when I was ten. To get there, you had to pass by Cherokee, a real tourist-trap of an Indian town a lot of people visit on their way to the beach or to the mountains for camping. I think Daddy would love to have camped, but you do not take Penny Fay Mullins to a place with no indoor plumbing, thank you very much. So we were on our way to Wrightsville Beach, where we had a house for two weeks.
It was a long drive. It took about twelve hours to get down there from Kentucky. Too short to make it a two-day trip, too long for a one-day trip to be pleasant. Momma and Daddy had started arguing somewhere near the Tennessee-North Carolina border, where 1-40 started whipping around the mountains and Daddy started racing semis.
Then I saw the signs for Cherokee and started begging. I figured this was my big chance to see what other reservations look liked.
“Daddy, we gotta stop! I want to see a gift shop. Pretty please with sugar on top!”
I was thinking these shops would be like the parts counter at the dealership back home. I loved that counter – all those shiny hubcaps and nuts and the cash register. I used to steal the little pads they wrote down orders on. I'd make my friends play Car Repair with me, which consisted of one girl scribbling down on the yellow pad of paper while the other (usually me) hopped up and down yelling, “You're takin' me to the damn cleaners!”
I don't think we would ever have stopped, if they hadn’t been so tired of hearing each other. Daddy sighed and said, "All right honey, but we can only stay for a half-hour. Your mother and I are tired from all this driving, and we'd like to get to the beach house."
"That's okay, Daddy." I answered. "You and Momma can sit in the chairs in the gift shop."
See, I knew they'd have chairs, just like in the dealership waiting area back home. Daddy kind of raised his eyebrow at my mother, but she just shrugged. She thought I was crazy from the day I was born.
We pulled off the highway and drove down the strip of Tee-Pee Hotels, Wampum Gas Stations and the Little Squaw Beauty Salon. It all looked enough like the Mobile stations, Burger Queens and muffler shops that surrounded Daddy's dealership. I figured I'd come to the right place.
Now, I got a little confused once we pulled in front of this store, because the fake log-cabin did not look like the clunky cement building where Daddy worked. But I was worldly enough to realize I couldn't expect everybody to do stuff exactly like they did back home. This was North Carolina, after all.
I was busting to get out of the car and jumped out the minute Daddy turned off the engine. I ran inside, where it was cool and dark and smelled like chewing tobacco. I saw shelves of dolls dressed as squaws, miniature tomahawks and plastic peace pipes hanging from the walls. But I didn't see plastic chairs, racks of spark plugs or bottled wax.
So I went up to the teenage boy behind the cash register, who was smoking a cigarette and fiddling with the knobs of a radio like there were no customers in his store. This was no big shocker to me. Daddy was real professional and would never sit down if there was a customer in the store, but the minute he was out in his office talking with Granddad, the other counter guys just sat around and drank Pepsi. You practically had to shout to get them to notice you if you wanted something.
"Excuse me, sir," I said to him. He flipped back his black bangs and looked at me with a blank stare. He had a white tank-top on and jeans, and around his neck hung a leather cord with a tiny silver cow skull. He looked at me like I was mud, like anything as small as me was just too much of a bother. When he raised his eyebrow, I saw a small light scar near his left eye.
He was the coolest guy I had ever seen.
"Um, I was just wonderin' where your parts are." I sounded so stupid! I couldn't talk to him like a normal person. Because he was so ... much more than normal.
"Parts?" He asked me, his eyebrow going up even higher. “What kinda parts?”
“Like, you know … car parts.”
He shook his head. “Car parts?” He nodded toward a door behind him. “Well, my uncle keeps some tires and stuff for his shop out back, don’t know if that’s what you’re looking for.”
I sucked in my breath and concentrated on not acting like a baby. "Yes. That is, in fact, exactly what I'm looking for."
I couldn't believe it. This was the real deal. All this toy stuff was just for dumb kids to look at while the adults settled down to the real business of buying parts. Out of the comer of my eye, I saw my mother at the jewelry case. I ran over to my father real quick.
"Daddy, remember when you said I could have my month's worth of allowance early, if I wanted to buy a souvenir? I need that right now."
"Well, honey, what do you want to buy with it? That's all the money you get to spend on this trip, you know."
I looked back at the cashier and smiled real cool, you know. Then I talked real low, 'cause I couldn't let this guy know I still got an allowance. "Daddy, I swear I'll never ask for anything again if you'll just give me twenty bucks."
"Twenty dollars is a lot of money, Katie Drew. Your allowance is only two dollars a week. You know that."
"Daddy, please! I will owe you for the rest. I'll rake the leaves, clean the house. I'll do anything. I just need that money!" I was in love and desperate.
Daddy looked at me kind of weird. But he was used to women weaseling money out of him, so he finally shrugged. "Like mother, like daughter. You can have your twenty dollars, but no allowance for the next couple months, then. And don't come cryin' to me next month when you want somethin' else this bad."
"Daddy, thank you, thank you. I won't!"
Then I marched the twenty-dollar bill back to the counter. "Sir, I'd like to see your parts."
He looked at me, all skeptical. "You sure your parents let you buy the parts?"
"Yes, sir. I'm pretty much in charge here. They're all wore out from drivin', so they let me take over."
"Okay," he shrugged, and motioned for me to come around the counter. "You can come out and look at 'em. And quit callin' me sir. My name's Tee-John."
Tee-John. It was the best name ever.
I stepped around and stood right next to Tee-John as he unlatched the screen door, smacked it open, then held it for me. I was so close to him, I could smell a big whiff of Old Spice, which is what Granddad wore. I didn't want to think about that, though. I didn't want anyone else in the world to smell like this now.
"Thank you, Tee-John," I said as I stepped out. Just saying his name gave me goose bumps. I hoped I sounded like Momma did when we'd leave the mall and some cute guy would hold the door for us and she'd thank him in that tone that didn’t sound like a mother.
"Careful of them steps!" he warned me, like a real gentleman. So I was careful going down the cracked, green-painted wooden steps that led into the backyard.
And what a backyard it was.
There was a huge wall around the whole yard, made out of tires stacked up just as high as you could see. And there was this old school bus painted purple, leaning on its side in the way back of the yard. All around the yard were rows of old engines and smack in the middle was the burnt-out shell of what had been an orange Camaro. Piled next to the Camaro, like stacks of giant coins, were shiny hubcaps, polished brighter than the gold bracelet Daddy gave Momma for their anniversary.
"Pretty cool, huh?" Tee-John asked me, his sullen eyes brightening for a moment.
"Yeah." I could barely even breathe. "Pretty cool."
Tee-John pointed to the school bus and announced, "That's my place. My uncle and me, we fixed up this yard, but the bus I did all myself."
Oh, I wish you could have seen that bus. He had the whole thing painted, like I said. And though there was kudzu all around, there was none covering the windows. I figured it was all clean in there. I swear it was like a big purple flower with green all around it, like you could live in there, and it would be all cool and quiet inside.
"Wow," was the only thing I could even say. I wanted to live there. I wanted to live in the bus with Tee-John. We'd run the store, and I'd get one of those cow-skull necklaces just like his. I didn't care if I ever saw my parents again. I had seen heaven and wanted it so bad. I wanted to dye my hair black just like his. I thought of my baby-blue and white room back home. It made me sick with shame. I wanted kudzu in my room. I wanted tires and a boy who looked like he didn't care about anything.
"Okay, let's get down to business," Tee-John declared. "I got used tires on special this month, a couple tailpipes dirt cheap, and spark plugs that are just like new."
"How much for one hubcap?" And even though I knew I could get me one used back home for ten, I was praying like crazy: Oh God, please God, don't let it be more than twenty. I know this is North Carolina. I know it's probably more expensive. But I swear, if you let me have it for twenty, I'll clean my room, I'll be nice to everyone, even stupid Kenny Kelly. Honest.
"I can give you a sweet deal on this one." Tee-John walked over to the Camaro and pulled out a slightly dented but sparkly cap. "From a Caddy that ran into a tree off the highway. I hear the people in it died."
"They died?" Oh, man … this was it.
"Yep. Worse'n that," Tee-John paused. "They were newlyweds."
"Oh, no," I cried, clutching the twenty I had somehow removed from my pocket and was holding like a charm.
"Yeah. They were on their way to their honeymoon in Wilmington."
"Oh my gosh, that's where we're going." I couldn't believe my luck.
If only I could afford it. I knew you just could not put a price on this type of tragedy, but I hoped like anything I could get this one for twenty.
"Well," Tee-John looked down at my fist, then looked away real quick. “I probably shouldn't sell it, being like a historical piece or whatnot." He narrowed his eyes and thought for a second. “Guess I could let it go for fifteen."
"Sold, Tee-John!" I was way beyond happy as I handed over the money. Tee-John polished the rim with the dirty hem of his tank top, then gave it to me. My hands touched his, and I felt the spark go through me, like when I accidentally stuck my finger in the outlet back home. I held that hubcap tight, letting its sun-drenched heat soak into my skin.
I couldn't wait to get in the car, just to run my fingers over where his shirt touched the rim.
"I gotta get back to the store. Now don't you tell anybody what you paid for that!" Tee-John looked right at me with his big brown eyes. I was touched he didn't want anyone to know what a sweet deal he had just given me. He felt down in his back pocket and brought up a dirty, tan plastic wallet, imprinted with the faded image of a motorcycle. He folded up my twenty and stuck it inside, then brought out a barely-green five dollar bill, which he smoothed-out with his thumbs and handed to me.
Then he turned and took the rotting stairs in one leap, with me right behind.
"Honey, are you ready to go?" Momma walked up to me, holding out her hand. "See what Daddy's getting me?"
She wiggled her fingers to show-off her new turquoise ring. "Now what did you get, Miss Katie Drew?"
I looked up at mother's flushed face. "Hubcap, Momma." Then I waved at Tee-John, who was at the cash register with my father. "Bye, Tee-John!"
And I swear, he winked at me.
I was outta there fast. I knew my parents wouldn't understand, and I didn't want to deal with a bunch of questions in the store. I waited by the car till my they came out, Momma saying something to Daddy and both of them looking at me with my hubcap. They thought I was crazy, but I didn’t even care.
"Now, what exactly did you buy?" Daddy asked me.
"You heard her, Bob," Momma answered, fanning herself with her hand. "She bought a hubcap. Now unlock this car and tum on the air, before we all die of heat."
She gave Daddy that we'll talk about this later look as we all got in the car, but I knew I'd never hear anything more about it. They'd talk about it to each other maybe, when we got to the beach house and they'd had a gin and tonic. It would give them something to worry about, beside themselves.
I just held that hubcap as we drove back onto the interstate, keeping my eyes peeled for where that accident might have happened.
####
At her cocktail parties, my mother could never resist telling everyone how I was conceived in the back seat of a '57 Chevy. "My little Katie is part Chevrolet," she'd say with that great laugh she's got.
This confused me when I was little and we were studying American Indians in school. When we learned about all the different tribes and their reservations, I got it in my head that Chevrolet was a tribe and the dealership where Daddy and Granddad worked was like the Chevrolet Reservation. My teacher said the Indians felt they had been cheated by the white people, and they spent a lot of time sitting around their reservations complaining. I'd been to the dealership enough to know that nearly everyone who came in there talked about being robbed blind, taken for all they were worth.
Sounded like the same thing to me.
My parents had no idea we were part of a tribe of car dealers until we took that vacation to Wilmington, North Carolina, when I was ten. To get there, you had to pass by Cherokee, a real tourist-trap of an Indian town a lot of people visit on their way to the beach or to the mountains for camping. I think Daddy would love to have camped, but you do not take Penny Fay Mullins to a place with no indoor plumbing, thank you very much. So we were on our way to Wrightsville Beach, where we had a house for two weeks.
It was a long drive. It took about twelve hours to get down there from Kentucky. Too short to make it a two-day trip, too long for a one-day trip to be pleasant. Momma and Daddy had started arguing somewhere near the Tennessee-North Carolina border, where 1-40 started whipping around the mountains and Daddy started racing semis.
Then I saw the signs for Cherokee and started begging. I figured this was my big chance to see what other reservations look liked.
“Daddy, we gotta stop! I want to see a gift shop. Pretty please with sugar on top!”
I was thinking these shops would be like the parts counter at the dealership back home. I loved that counter – all those shiny hubcaps and nuts and the cash register. I used to steal the little pads they wrote down orders on. I'd make my friends play Car Repair with me, which consisted of one girl scribbling down on the yellow pad of paper while the other (usually me) hopped up and down yelling, “You're takin' me to the damn cleaners!”
I don't think we would ever have stopped, if they hadn’t been so tired of hearing each other. Daddy sighed and said, "All right honey, but we can only stay for a half-hour. Your mother and I are tired from all this driving, and we'd like to get to the beach house."
"That's okay, Daddy." I answered. "You and Momma can sit in the chairs in the gift shop."
See, I knew they'd have chairs, just like in the dealership waiting area back home. Daddy kind of raised his eyebrow at my mother, but she just shrugged. She thought I was crazy from the day I was born.
We pulled off the highway and drove down the strip of Tee-Pee Hotels, Wampum Gas Stations and the Little Squaw Beauty Salon. It all looked enough like the Mobile stations, Burger Queens and muffler shops that surrounded Daddy's dealership. I figured I'd come to the right place.
Now, I got a little confused once we pulled in front of this store, because the fake log-cabin did not look like the clunky cement building where Daddy worked. But I was worldly enough to realize I couldn't expect everybody to do stuff exactly like they did back home. This was North Carolina, after all.
I was busting to get out of the car and jumped out the minute Daddy turned off the engine. I ran inside, where it was cool and dark and smelled like chewing tobacco. I saw shelves of dolls dressed as squaws, miniature tomahawks and plastic peace pipes hanging from the walls. But I didn't see plastic chairs, racks of spark plugs or bottled wax.
So I went up to the teenage boy behind the cash register, who was smoking a cigarette and fiddling with the knobs of a radio like there were no customers in his store. This was no big shocker to me. Daddy was real professional and would never sit down if there was a customer in the store, but the minute he was out in his office talking with Granddad, the other counter guys just sat around and drank Pepsi. You practically had to shout to get them to notice you if you wanted something.
"Excuse me, sir," I said to him. He flipped back his black bangs and looked at me with a blank stare. He had a white tank-top on and jeans, and around his neck hung a leather cord with a tiny silver cow skull. He looked at me like I was mud, like anything as small as me was just too much of a bother. When he raised his eyebrow, I saw a small light scar near his left eye.
He was the coolest guy I had ever seen.
"Um, I was just wonderin' where your parts are." I sounded so stupid! I couldn't talk to him like a normal person. Because he was so ... much more than normal.
"Parts?" He asked me, his eyebrow going up even higher. “What kinda parts?”
“Like, you know … car parts.”
He shook his head. “Car parts?” He nodded toward a door behind him. “Well, my uncle keeps some tires and stuff for his shop out back, don’t know if that’s what you’re looking for.”
I sucked in my breath and concentrated on not acting like a baby. "Yes. That is, in fact, exactly what I'm looking for."
I couldn't believe it. This was the real deal. All this toy stuff was just for dumb kids to look at while the adults settled down to the real business of buying parts. Out of the comer of my eye, I saw my mother at the jewelry case. I ran over to my father real quick.
"Daddy, remember when you said I could have my month's worth of allowance early, if I wanted to buy a souvenir? I need that right now."
"Well, honey, what do you want to buy with it? That's all the money you get to spend on this trip, you know."
I looked back at the cashier and smiled real cool, you know. Then I talked real low, 'cause I couldn't let this guy know I still got an allowance. "Daddy, I swear I'll never ask for anything again if you'll just give me twenty bucks."
"Twenty dollars is a lot of money, Katie Drew. Your allowance is only two dollars a week. You know that."
"Daddy, please! I will owe you for the rest. I'll rake the leaves, clean the house. I'll do anything. I just need that money!" I was in love and desperate.
Daddy looked at me kind of weird. But he was used to women weaseling money out of him, so he finally shrugged. "Like mother, like daughter. You can have your twenty dollars, but no allowance for the next couple months, then. And don't come cryin' to me next month when you want somethin' else this bad."
"Daddy, thank you, thank you. I won't!"
Then I marched the twenty-dollar bill back to the counter. "Sir, I'd like to see your parts."
He looked at me, all skeptical. "You sure your parents let you buy the parts?"
"Yes, sir. I'm pretty much in charge here. They're all wore out from drivin', so they let me take over."
"Okay," he shrugged, and motioned for me to come around the counter. "You can come out and look at 'em. And quit callin' me sir. My name's Tee-John."
Tee-John. It was the best name ever.
I stepped around and stood right next to Tee-John as he unlatched the screen door, smacked it open, then held it for me. I was so close to him, I could smell a big whiff of Old Spice, which is what Granddad wore. I didn't want to think about that, though. I didn't want anyone else in the world to smell like this now.
"Thank you, Tee-John," I said as I stepped out. Just saying his name gave me goose bumps. I hoped I sounded like Momma did when we'd leave the mall and some cute guy would hold the door for us and she'd thank him in that tone that didn’t sound like a mother.
"Careful of them steps!" he warned me, like a real gentleman. So I was careful going down the cracked, green-painted wooden steps that led into the backyard.
And what a backyard it was.
There was a huge wall around the whole yard, made out of tires stacked up just as high as you could see. And there was this old school bus painted purple, leaning on its side in the way back of the yard. All around the yard were rows of old engines and smack in the middle was the burnt-out shell of what had been an orange Camaro. Piled next to the Camaro, like stacks of giant coins, were shiny hubcaps, polished brighter than the gold bracelet Daddy gave Momma for their anniversary.
"Pretty cool, huh?" Tee-John asked me, his sullen eyes brightening for a moment.
"Yeah." I could barely even breathe. "Pretty cool."
Tee-John pointed to the school bus and announced, "That's my place. My uncle and me, we fixed up this yard, but the bus I did all myself."
Oh, I wish you could have seen that bus. He had the whole thing painted, like I said. And though there was kudzu all around, there was none covering the windows. I figured it was all clean in there. I swear it was like a big purple flower with green all around it, like you could live in there, and it would be all cool and quiet inside.
"Wow," was the only thing I could even say. I wanted to live there. I wanted to live in the bus with Tee-John. We'd run the store, and I'd get one of those cow-skull necklaces just like his. I didn't care if I ever saw my parents again. I had seen heaven and wanted it so bad. I wanted to dye my hair black just like his. I thought of my baby-blue and white room back home. It made me sick with shame. I wanted kudzu in my room. I wanted tires and a boy who looked like he didn't care about anything.
"Okay, let's get down to business," Tee-John declared. "I got used tires on special this month, a couple tailpipes dirt cheap, and spark plugs that are just like new."
"How much for one hubcap?" And even though I knew I could get me one used back home for ten, I was praying like crazy: Oh God, please God, don't let it be more than twenty. I know this is North Carolina. I know it's probably more expensive. But I swear, if you let me have it for twenty, I'll clean my room, I'll be nice to everyone, even stupid Kenny Kelly. Honest.
"I can give you a sweet deal on this one." Tee-John walked over to the Camaro and pulled out a slightly dented but sparkly cap. "From a Caddy that ran into a tree off the highway. I hear the people in it died."
"They died?" Oh, man … this was it.
"Yep. Worse'n that," Tee-John paused. "They were newlyweds."
"Oh, no," I cried, clutching the twenty I had somehow removed from my pocket and was holding like a charm.
"Yeah. They were on their way to their honeymoon in Wilmington."
"Oh my gosh, that's where we're going." I couldn't believe my luck.
If only I could afford it. I knew you just could not put a price on this type of tragedy, but I hoped like anything I could get this one for twenty.
"Well," Tee-John looked down at my fist, then looked away real quick. “I probably shouldn't sell it, being like a historical piece or whatnot." He narrowed his eyes and thought for a second. “Guess I could let it go for fifteen."
"Sold, Tee-John!" I was way beyond happy as I handed over the money. Tee-John polished the rim with the dirty hem of his tank top, then gave it to me. My hands touched his, and I felt the spark go through me, like when I accidentally stuck my finger in the outlet back home. I held that hubcap tight, letting its sun-drenched heat soak into my skin.
I couldn't wait to get in the car, just to run my fingers over where his shirt touched the rim.
"I gotta get back to the store. Now don't you tell anybody what you paid for that!" Tee-John looked right at me with his big brown eyes. I was touched he didn't want anyone to know what a sweet deal he had just given me. He felt down in his back pocket and brought up a dirty, tan plastic wallet, imprinted with the faded image of a motorcycle. He folded up my twenty and stuck it inside, then brought out a barely-green five dollar bill, which he smoothed-out with his thumbs and handed to me.
Then he turned and took the rotting stairs in one leap, with me right behind.
"Honey, are you ready to go?" Momma walked up to me, holding out her hand. "See what Daddy's getting me?"
She wiggled her fingers to show-off her new turquoise ring. "Now what did you get, Miss Katie Drew?"
I looked up at mother's flushed face. "Hubcap, Momma." Then I waved at Tee-John, who was at the cash register with my father. "Bye, Tee-John!"
And I swear, he winked at me.
I was outta there fast. I knew my parents wouldn't understand, and I didn't want to deal with a bunch of questions in the store. I waited by the car till my they came out, Momma saying something to Daddy and both of them looking at me with my hubcap. They thought I was crazy, but I didn’t even care.
"Now, what exactly did you buy?" Daddy asked me.
"You heard her, Bob," Momma answered, fanning herself with her hand. "She bought a hubcap. Now unlock this car and tum on the air, before we all die of heat."
She gave Daddy that we'll talk about this later look as we all got in the car, but I knew I'd never hear anything more about it. They'd talk about it to each other maybe, when we got to the beach house and they'd had a gin and tonic. It would give them something to worry about, beside themselves.
I just held that hubcap as we drove back onto the interstate, keeping my eyes peeled for where that accident might have happened.
Friday, March 11, 2016
Ratcopalypes Now: A true tale of one woman and the rats who destroyed her car ... along with her dignity
February 17
Last Friday, I noticed that all the warning signs in my car started flashing. Not a good sign, right? So I took it to a repair shop, who quickly called to tell me they'd no idea what the hell was wrong -- but it didn't bode well and I should drive it to the dealership ASAP.
So I did ... and the rest, as they say, is history. Or in this case, Ratstory.
I dropped off the car at Subaru of Plano. I didn't hear from them for a while, so I called them back in the afternoon -- figuring, eh, it's electrical stuff they probably had to run some computery codey type thing (yes, that's my version of tech speak). The nice service guy gets on the line. "Well, Mrs. Reedy, we're still running the codes (SEE??) but we did notice something. In the engine? There's evidence of rodents."
"Rats?" I think I might have squealed just a little. "Are you saying RATS have been in my car?"
"Well, we found some wiring that looks chewed..."
There was more squealing on my part, and an uncomfortable choking noise on his and then he explained very nicely that he would probably need to get back to me in the morning. And then he started laughing before realizing he hadn't yet hung up the phone.
So that was Monday.
Disgusted, I dealt with the news in the only reasonable way I could: wine and red carpet therapy. After all, the Grammys were on, and no rodent was going to keep me from tipsily posting nonsense about Johnny Depp.
Then on Tuesday afternoon, the dealer called me back. Here's how that conversation went:
Subaru dealer: I have some news on your car
Me: Oh great, were you able to fix it?
Subaru: Well, ma'am... we've found evidence of multiple rats. All over the car.
Me: Please tell me you are kidding.
Subaru. No ma'am. they've been IN your car. Under floor mats, under the driver's side foot pads
Me: (Feeling violated). Oh. My.God.
Subaru: We need to take apart the entire interior of your car to determine the extent of the wiring damage and repair it.
Me: So ...how much does something like that cost?
Subaru: Well, ma'am, I can tell you there's a comma. I just can't say for sure what the number is before it.
I had this conversation at work, mind you, and I sit in a cubicle so when I called back the dealer and said, "Hi, this is Deirdre Reedy, you know, the one with the rat car?" everyone heard me. And laughed. I don't blame them.
I then made the mistake of asking the dealer, "so, like, when you said they were IN my car, exactly how IN are we talking?" When he told me they'd been all over the floor and the center console, that's when I really lost it and dissolved into hysterical laughter/crying. Because my kids drop food on the floor of my car and then pick it back up and eat it. All the time. The pediatrician said my oldest had bronchitis, but now I wasn't so sure. I'm no history buff, but if memory serves me right, rats are sorta famous for spreading around a little disease, maybe you've heard of it? BLACK PLAGUE, anyone??
And the center console is where I stash my nail polish. Because of course the only opportunity I have to do my nails is sitting in the car, in the school parking lot after I drop off the kids at school and before driving to the office. The minute I attempt to polish my nails while my kids are around, someone needs their shoes tied, something fished out of a backpack, or a Playstation remote has been lost in the couch cushions and requires surgical retrieval.
But now, that sacred, private enclave for quickie manicures had been invaded. By rats. Chewing through wires was bad enough, but nail polish? Was nothing sacred? I pictured a rat trying to apply Suzy Loves Cowboys to its tiny claws. Chilling.
So then I called my husband to ask him to call the insurance company and see if we were covered for RODENT DAMAGE. He didn't believe me. "If you want to call them back and ask for the detailed, disgusting explanation, you are MORE than welcome," I said. "But as for me, I believe."
Because really, who would make up something like car-chewing rats? OK, maybe a lot of people. But, determined to prove the veracity of this horrible claim, I posted about it on Facebook. (Because obviously that's the most reliable source of information about rodents that eat Subarus).
All night, people responded -- many of them with equally horrific tales of rat-car woe. Many more of them just laughing. Again, don't blame them. Hysterical giggling had become my norm.
And, it should be noted, I live in an area currently beseiged by bobcats and I found it particularly cruel that while other people had posted heartbreaking tales of pets being carted off by these critters, I apparently had an all night buffet in my garage, but nary a bobcat to be found. I was beginning to entertain wild thoughts of the entire hood's rat population using my car as a de facto rat refugee camp. Did rats organize? Did they tweet cunning messages like, "Safe house in the Subaru. #fleethebobcats?"
Thankfully, between hysteria and Facebook, there was one moment of sanity. My lovely insurance company (seriously, if I could kiss Geico, I would) did agree to cover the damages and set me up with a rental. The Enterprise guy asked me how long I would need the car. I said, "I don't know. They have to take the whole interior of my Subaru apart."
"What happened?" he asked.
"Rats ate my car."
The look on his face was priceless. The upgrade was not. But, he did give me a deal on a brand new Hyundai something.
Because rats. Trump. Everything.
He showed me the car. It was nice. Shiny, new, with only 25 miles on it. I scribbled my signature on a bunch of forms and declined the optional extra insurance, which made him nervous. "You can always call back and add it on," he said several times. Obviously he was rethinking the wisdom of letting me take a pretty new car into the Garage That Rats Ate.
It was too late. My son had already decided he loved the new car and it's pretty hard to turn down a cute kid and his desperate rat-crazed mom. So the nice Enterprise guy had no choice but to finish up the forms. Only slightly reluctantly, he handed over the keys. "Before you go, let's just take a quick look around the car to inspect it."
"Let me save you the trouble," I said. "I only have one question."
With a look that suggested he was already regretting this entire transaction, he asked, "What do you want to know?"
I smiled.
"Does it come with rats?"
February 22 ... AKA Ratpocalypse, Day 7
For the next few days, the high of driving something 100% rodent-free kept me relatively sane. The exterminator came out Thursday and insisted he saw no signs of rats, but refilled the bait boxes anyway. I started to think maybe I was crazy, maybe the rats were coming from someplace else? Maybe this was all just a terribly hideous nightmare.
And then, as I walked into work on Friday, Alex from Subaru called with this update:
Alex: Hi, we pulled up the flooring in your car and ... it's bad.
Me: How bad? (stupid, stupid question)
Alex: At least 2 major wiring harnesses have been chewed through. The carpets are ruined, they've eaten through the padding underneath and when we pulled it up, there were rat droppings everywhere.
Me: Euwwwww
Alex: So the insurance adjuster's coming out today, but I just wanted to give you a heads and prepare you ... because your car may be totaled.
Me: Oh.My.God.
Alex: I have to tell you, your car was sitting in the shop last night and when I opened the doors this morning? I don't have a weak stomach but it just about made me sick.
Me: (thank you for that visual, Alex) So... you're telling me rats LITERALLY ate my car.
Alex: Yes. Yes, rats LITERALLY ate your car.
That was Friday.
On Saturday, after an 8 am trip to the dentist for emergency retainer repair (because of course my son pulled his expensive retainer out of place, why not add to the joy of Rat Week??), I pulled into the garage and noticed little, black bits of what looked like paper or rubber on the floor beneath where my car would have been parked. Like what you might expect to find, if, say, something was CHEWING on the undercarriage of one's car.
As I stomped into the house and pointed out this evidence to my husband, the bank called. To verify recent purchases.
That I had not made.
Yes. The rats had now infiltrated Bank of America and were clearly out to destroy me.
This.Was.War.
There are few places on earth I loathe more than Home Depot, so the irony was not lost on me, that the rats drove me to this:
Before anyone goes all PETA on me, no I did not buy glue traps. Or any kind of traps because OH MY GOD DEAD RATS??? No. Just. No. Plus I knew we already had bait boxes full of poison, so I augmented those with plug-in sonar devices that supposedly scared away rodents, plus loads of mothballs which I stashed in several corners of the garage, plus all over the ground beneath both cars.
I may have gone slightly overboard with the mothballs, because by Sunday morning the entire house smelled like my Grandma's closet. Glass half full? Didn't smell like rats.
With all signs pointing to an imminent Rodent Rapture, I knew I should get the kids organized for church, but frankly, I just could not get my act together. So instead, I left them with my husband and headed for the gym, hoping a few laps might restore some speck of sanity.
All week I'd had to use my phone number to check in since my gym tag was still dangling on the key chain of the Ratmobile. But when I informed the not-usual-Sunday gym guy that I didn't have my tag, he smirked. "Sorry, you can't work out." I glared at him. "Just kidding!" he snarked. I stopped myself from telling him about the rats in my car, and instead attempted to read the novel tattooed on his arms while he checked me in.
Then, in the pool, there was a gentleman engaged in this elaborate, almost violent poolside stretching routine. For about 10 minutes this went on. It was mesmerizing and confusing at the same time. After the stretching, he then stood there and fiddled with the strings on his swimsuit - for, I kid you not - 5 minutes. (And yes, of course, it was a Speedo. Men of the world, I implore you, just say no to Speedo).
After he'd finished with the drawstring, he got into the water and sat in this sort of zen like pose for another 5 minutes.
THEN he finally started to swim.
For five minutes.
After which, he got back out of the pool and left.
I'll be honest, I was let down -- I expected an Olympic event after all that. But, people in rat cars shouldn't throw stones. Or judge other people's swim techniques. As finished up my laps, the man in the lane next to me told me how impressed he was that my hair had stayed dry (I had it all bunched up on top of my head) and that he had been watching to see if it was going to get wet. Um. Okay.
"Look,"I told him, "I paid good money to color my hair, I'm not dunking it in the pool at LA Fitness." This led to another discussion about hair color and the effects of chlorine vs salt water, and ... I don't really know what we were talking about, because at this point, I became completely convinced I was trapped in my own reality TV show. (The Real Ratwives of Richardson?)
After my lively swim hair convo, I topped things off with a trip to Tom Thumb, because I ran out of coffee filters (how? There are only a million in those packages. I have never run out of them in my life. And yet. This morning. Yes. Blamed the rats).
While I was at the store, I decided to pick up another pound of turkey because out of nowhere, my son was obsessed with honey turkey. And he'd eaten through half the pound I'd bought the day before. As any picky eater parent knows, if you find something remotely healthy they will eat, you buy ridiculous amounts of it until they get sick of it.
The same deli guy who had waited on me yesterday when I bought the first pound of honey turkey, was behind the counter again. He looked totally confused -- the expression on his face clearly said, wait, I've done this before. But instead of saying, "hey, weren't you just here?" he asked me, "How's your day going? I mean ... have you even done anything yet today?" I looked at him and thought, you have no idea, Deli Man.
He shook his head and tried again. "No, wait, I mean, how long have you been up this morning?" He was clearly thrown by the deli deja-vous. I just smiled and waited for my meat. Because sometimes, that's all you can do.
Lesson learned: Next Sunday, go to church.
Next Saturday: buy 2 pounds of turkey.
Sunday evening, I pulled out all the stops in an effort to have a nice, relaxing evening. I had prosecco while the kids played video games (note: ALWAYS have Prosecco when there are video games being played. Nothing dulls the annoying throb of Minecraft like sparkling wine). I put them to bed early and made pasta. Then went back upstairs to get them back to bed.
And again.
And again.
By now the soothing effects of Prosecco had worn off. There may have been some screeching on my part. FINALLY they were in bed for good. And my husband turned on Downton Abbey. Because obviously if you're going to chase away the rat blues, a period piece in England with fabulous costumes and elegant manners is the only choice.
For a while, it worked. Dinner was delicious, Downton was delightful and I was beginning to relax.
And then? A loud rustling noise came from the bushes. My husband made fun of me for jumping, but he couldn't figure out the source of the sound, either. Because of course Facebook has been my sounding board, I had to post something about this (which my husband also made fun of me for doing) and a friend suggested I get a python for my garage.
A Burmese python.
You know? Those horrible, thick, disgusting snakes that plague the Everglades and have been known to crush small children?
Because just when you think things can't get worse, you imagine adding a loathesome predatory snake to the mix of rats frolicking through your garage.
And that is when you realize.
Things can definitely get worse.
Ratpocalypse, Day 11
I went to see my car. My husband thought me insane. You may, too, but some sick impulse compelled me to see the damage the rats had wreaked on my Tribeca. The insurance adjuster had not yet made a decision, and I'm not very good with ambiguity so I decided to take matters into my own hands and see it in the flesh, so to speak.
Warning: don't view these photos while eating.
Because you can't un-see this.
Yeah. That's the back of my car, with the seats and carpet pulled up. Here's another view, a bit closer to the front.
What's that, you say? You'd like to see what the carpet pad looks like? Sure, why not? We're all sickened in this together by this point.
So yes, I can now say with complete confidence: Rats ate my Subaru. And apparently had a small war while they were at it, or the world's biggest rat kegger because the smell? Oh. Dear.Lord.
Subaru Alex said the guys in the auto shop wear gloves and masks while dealing with my car. Oh, insurance adjuster, please make this end. No one should have to work on this - this is a bubonic plague epidemic in the making. Ebola? Please. This kind of rot and despair eats Ebola for breakfast.
Before I left, I did peek into the rotting carcass that used to transport my children to see what I might salvage. One soccer ball, one basketball, one jacket that I promptly threw into the wash along with everything I wore into the dealership as soon as I got home. And then, two small cosmetic bags.
As Subaru Alex was walking me back to the front, I rummaged through the bags. He gave me a funny look, probably wondering why I'd want those after I'd just told him to trash the booster seats. I found what I was looking for -- a small, spray bottle of Mystere cologne, which has been discontinued for like 20 years, and I bought on eBay.
Because they ate my car, they cost thousands of dollars worth of damage, and the sight is still making my skin crawl.
But steal my French perfume? I don't think so, rats. You picked the wrong girl to mess with.
Ratcopalypse Day 13, AKA Leap Day
Geico Shonda called me with an update. She wants Subaru Alex to confirm if the engine's damaged. Subaru Alex says he can't tell anything more unless they fix the car.
Which, deep down, nobody really wants to do.
I feel like a cage match is coming on. My money's on the rats.
Later that night, I am alone in bed and notice some rather disturbingly odd noises. I post this on Facebook: Does anyone have a perfectly logical and reasonable explanation for random house noises that sound like someone is walking around when you know that no one is there? Because I'd really like to know.
The following are some of the answers friends posted. Because I just can't make this stuff up.
Pam: Rats.... (Is it too soon, it's too soon)
Indy-Rae: Rats
Kymberlei: Rats
Jacki: Definitely rats. Cure? Vote for Bernie Sanders tomorrow. He'll eradicate them from your house as well as the White House.
Me: Sorry, I already voted for Hillary. You should have told me about Bernie Sanders' magical rat powers earlier.
Jaymi: Hate to say this...but you might want to see if you have varmints in your walls and/or attic.
Me: Noooooo
Richman: Possums, Coons, Squirrels, Bob Cats?
Me: If there's a bobcat in my house, I wonder if I could pay it to patrol my garage for rats
Niki: Spirits! I know someone that can clear that up for you!
Shelley: Why, ghosts, darling.
Ashley: Temp changes in exterior environment causing expansion of construction materials. Creaks and squeeks.
Shelley: You are no fun, Ashley.
Me: But what explains the noises like footsteps ? Those aren't creaks and squeaks. They are thumps and bumps.
Shelley: Ghosts, I tell ya!
Ashley: Running the hot water? If not properly secured to studs, the expansion from hot water passing through both copper or pvc pipes can cause the pipes to bounce against framing... thumps and bumps...
Shelley: Has ruined ghost stories for you?
Me: I'm not running hot water. But I am giggling and the dog looks like she thinks I'm nuts.
Shelley: It could be a thing...Facebook ghost stories..
Me: I would totally read those! I would like to put in a request for a better ghost, though.
Me (again): And -- it should be noted -- since we started talking about these noises they have stopped. Like they know we are talking about them.
Shelley: Smart little bastards.
Me: With my luck it's probably the ghost...of a rat. Ugh. Dear spirit world, please send me the ghost of something better.
Jason: Old friend. I'm so sorry.You have rats in your house. I don't want to rub it in, but there is at least one spot in your attic that looks like under the carpet in your car.
Me: I hate Leap Day.
Ratcopalypse Day 15
NBC-5 broadcasts a story about rats chewing through wiring. I immediately show this to everyone I know, as proof that I am not insane. Also, I go on the message boards and find a link to a truly horrifying site with all kinds of stories about chewed-up cars, including one that exploded. Is there anything that could possibly be more horrifying than exploding rats? I don't think so.
Ratpocalypse Day 16
Geico Shonda calls me with bad news. Because there is no way to determine engine damage without repairing the rat-damaged wiring harnesses, she has authorized Subaru Alex to repair them. There's a chance this will reveal further damage, but at this point, my car is not totaled.
I, on the other hand, am.
Ratcopalypse Day 17
No more news from Geico Shonda or Subaru Alex, but the NBC-5 message board is chock full of folks who seem to think rats eating cars is perfectly normal and somehow, the fault of the car owner. All except for a guy who is part of the class action suit against Honda and totally gets it. I'm slightly envious, however, because his car was eaten by bunnies, not rats.You have to wonder about the world when cute little rabbits are devouring cars.
Ratcopalypse Day 18
I watch the Republican Debates and something becomes crystal clear. Donald Trump is responsible for the rats in my car. It's the only logical explanation.
Ratcopaylypse Day 20
At last -- a bright spot in the rodent-littered horizon. We go on spring break and drive to Austin on a sunny, rat-free day. Of course, that does not stop everyone I know from posting rat references on all of my Facebook posts (which, by the way, according to my husband, have gotten out of control).
The first day we take in a Baylor basketball game in Waco, drive down to Austin and have one of those rare, blissfully peaceful nights, thanks to the magic that is Green Mesquite BBQ and the outdoor, heated pool.
Sunday night, after more BBQ and swimming, once again everyone in my family goes to sleep. Except me. And so I'm the only one up reading when the couple next door launches what can only be described as the Viagra Olympics. After about an hour, this takes a riveting detour into domestic violence that I think may have arisen over an argument over certain paid services. I can't be sure, but between the tossing of furniture I did hear quite a bit of yelling about a "bitch" and "money."
I call the front desk. I call them again. I give up. At 430 am, the entire thing starts up again. Needless to say, I get little sleep. That sets the tone for the rest of the trip, which, while action-packed, is less than relaxing.
On the last day, I take the boys swimming and learn from another Dallas vacationer that tornadoes are stirring up trouble back home and there's an expected lull during the afternoon before the bad weather starts back up again. I tell my husband we'd better get going, and he suggests I take the boys down for breakfast while he gets ready. As we head into the lobby for the overpriced buffet to supplement the overpriced froot loops they've already consumed poolside, I notice something strange.
The lobby is jam-packed with men. Which on the surface is not weird because -- a conference, right? Except usually conferences are not all guys. And I'm not seeing the suits or the khaki/polo-clad business casual crowd. More like the heavily tattooed, pierced and denim-clad crowd. And as I walk through the crowd milling around tables set up with pamphlets and strange machines that some of the guys are breathing into, I'm suddenly conscious of the fact that everyone is staring at me and the kids. A man who appears to be in charge starts yelling, "Everybody back in the room, NOW!" That's kind of bossy for a meeting, I think.
But, we continue on our way and hit the buffet where naturally, no one eats anything. Then we head back through the lobby, where my husband has asked us to bring up a luggage cart. "We" get a cart ... and by that I mean, I push the cart while the combined 110 pounds of my boys take a joyride. I somehow manage to get us onto the elevator.
When the doors open on the 14th floor, a woman in a headset is angrily explaining to someone on the phone that, "I have hundreds of men here ready to take drug tests, what do you mean you aren't coming?"
I shove the cart past Drug Test Lady and as I round the corner, I see we've a slight problem. You know that hallway in high school where all the cool kids hung out and it was slightly intimidating to walk through? Well, sub in "sketchy guys" for "cool kids" and sub in "hotel" for "high school" and you get the picture. I'll give the guys credit, though. They only slightly heckle me as my kids totally ignore my requests for help with the cart. Thanks, boys.
We finally make it into the room, load up the cart, pass back through the hall of shame and hit the road. My youngest son demonstrates the power of 3 solid days of root beer consumption and goes completely bonkers the entire drive home. I won't lie. There was cursing (me), smacking of legs (me) and hysterical screeching laughter (kids).
There was also a stop at the Buc-ee's in Temple, Texas, where my kids beg for soccer balls imprinted with Buc-ee the beaver and I beg for a metal rooster that looks just like a tiny cousin to Beyonce the chicken (from the best blog post of all times, and if you haven't read it, please do so right here).
Alas, I say no to the beaver balls (snicker) and my husband says no to the chicken.
We make it home.
The kids go to bed very early because Mommy? Is done.
My husband goes out with the guys because he? Is also done.
Ratcopalypse Day 24
Three days after we return home, something magical happens. Geico Shonda calls me. Apparently the carpet in my car has been discontinued and nobody makes it anymore. Which means....MY CAR IS TOTALED!!!!!!!!!!
I rejoice in the only way befitting such a ridiculous spectacle -- by posting my fabulous news on Facebook. I feel like we've all come on this journey together, after all. My husband makes fun of me (again) because I make a last minute dash out for flowers and a Starbucks gift card for Geico Shonda, and cookies/brownies for Subaru Alex and all the guys unlucky enough to touch my car. I mean, it's the least I can do.
We meet Shonda and give her the title. She gives me a check. I get my husband to take a photo.
Ten minutes later, we are at Subaru of Plano, going through our car one more time. They've put the seats back in and vacuumed, which is really a shame because now my husband does not get the full picture of grotesque rat revelry. But, Subaru Alex does show him the wiring and at last, he believes. I think.
I want to take a photo with Subaru Alex but I sense my husband's patience is waning. Also, he looked pretty disgusted when I made him take a picture of me and Geico Shonda, so I'm not pushing my luck. We say goodbye to the car that took us from NYC to Texas and that drove my second child home from the hospital. My husband says, "Lot of memories in that car."
Somehow, I can't get sentimental as I point out. "Lot of rats in that car, too."
Since our fabulously kind neighbor has taken the kids to a movie, we decide to try test-driving a couple of cars while we're out. The Toyota Highlander is nice, though the dealer seems shaken when my husband asks if they offer any kind of rat protection.
The Acura MDX is nicer. But the touch screen confuses me. The salesman misinterprets just how tech-stupid I am, however, by pointing out the plus and minus signs for the temperature control. "See," he says helpfully, "you push the plus sign when you want it hotter. You push the minus sign to make it cooler."
Honestly. I'm not an idiot.
Or maybe I am.
Because after the test drive, I'm sitting with the sales guy and he's pointing out some warranty something and I'm nodding and then I look down at my shirt.
Which has come unbuttoned. Like, halfway-down-my-chest unbuttoned.
There is no way to be discreet here. He sees it, I see it. I just have to turn around and button back up and pretend like nothing happened. But at that point, this visit is pretty much shot.
I hold it together long enough to get out of the dealership. But as we get back into the rental car, I start to giggle. My husband gives me a look that can only be described as pained. I explain that I just inadvertently flashed the sales guy.
"Hey, way to get us a discount," is his chivalrous reply.
I mean. It's not enough they destroyed my car; now the rats have taken my dignity.
But, glass half full -- I will be getting a rodent-free car out of this mess. And I feel like this journey has given me a new perspective on life.
Because the next time you're having a bad day, remember this:
At least rats haven't eaten your car.
And at least you haven't flashed your bra to a 50 year old Acura salesman.
Last Friday, I noticed that all the warning signs in my car started flashing. Not a good sign, right? So I took it to a repair shop, who quickly called to tell me they'd no idea what the hell was wrong -- but it didn't bode well and I should drive it to the dealership ASAP.
So I did ... and the rest, as they say, is history. Or in this case, Ratstory.
I dropped off the car at Subaru of Plano. I didn't hear from them for a while, so I called them back in the afternoon -- figuring, eh, it's electrical stuff they probably had to run some computery codey type thing (yes, that's my version of tech speak). The nice service guy gets on the line. "Well, Mrs. Reedy, we're still running the codes (SEE??) but we did notice something. In the engine? There's evidence of rodents."
"Rats?" I think I might have squealed just a little. "Are you saying RATS have been in my car?"
"Well, we found some wiring that looks chewed..."
There was more squealing on my part, and an uncomfortable choking noise on his and then he explained very nicely that he would probably need to get back to me in the morning. And then he started laughing before realizing he hadn't yet hung up the phone.
So that was Monday.
Disgusted, I dealt with the news in the only reasonable way I could: wine and red carpet therapy. After all, the Grammys were on, and no rodent was going to keep me from tipsily posting nonsense about Johnny Depp.
Then on Tuesday afternoon, the dealer called me back. Here's how that conversation went:
Subaru dealer: I have some news on your car
Me: Oh great, were you able to fix it?
Subaru: Well, ma'am... we've found evidence of multiple rats. All over the car.
Me: Please tell me you are kidding.
Subaru. No ma'am. they've been IN your car. Under floor mats, under the driver's side foot pads
Me: (Feeling violated). Oh. My.God.
Subaru: We need to take apart the entire interior of your car to determine the extent of the wiring damage and repair it.
Me: So ...how much does something like that cost?
Subaru: Well, ma'am, I can tell you there's a comma. I just can't say for sure what the number is before it.
I had this conversation at work, mind you, and I sit in a cubicle so when I called back the dealer and said, "Hi, this is Deirdre Reedy, you know, the one with the rat car?" everyone heard me. And laughed. I don't blame them.
I then made the mistake of asking the dealer, "so, like, when you said they were IN my car, exactly how IN are we talking?" When he told me they'd been all over the floor and the center console, that's when I really lost it and dissolved into hysterical laughter/crying. Because my kids drop food on the floor of my car and then pick it back up and eat it. All the time. The pediatrician said my oldest had bronchitis, but now I wasn't so sure. I'm no history buff, but if memory serves me right, rats are sorta famous for spreading around a little disease, maybe you've heard of it? BLACK PLAGUE, anyone??
And the center console is where I stash my nail polish. Because of course the only opportunity I have to do my nails is sitting in the car, in the school parking lot after I drop off the kids at school and before driving to the office. The minute I attempt to polish my nails while my kids are around, someone needs their shoes tied, something fished out of a backpack, or a Playstation remote has been lost in the couch cushions and requires surgical retrieval.
But now, that sacred, private enclave for quickie manicures had been invaded. By rats. Chewing through wires was bad enough, but nail polish? Was nothing sacred? I pictured a rat trying to apply Suzy Loves Cowboys to its tiny claws. Chilling.
So then I called my husband to ask him to call the insurance company and see if we were covered for RODENT DAMAGE. He didn't believe me. "If you want to call them back and ask for the detailed, disgusting explanation, you are MORE than welcome," I said. "But as for me, I believe."
Because really, who would make up something like car-chewing rats? OK, maybe a lot of people. But, determined to prove the veracity of this horrible claim, I posted about it on Facebook. (Because obviously that's the most reliable source of information about rodents that eat Subarus).
All night, people responded -- many of them with equally horrific tales of rat-car woe. Many more of them just laughing. Again, don't blame them. Hysterical giggling had become my norm.
And, it should be noted, I live in an area currently beseiged by bobcats and I found it particularly cruel that while other people had posted heartbreaking tales of pets being carted off by these critters, I apparently had an all night buffet in my garage, but nary a bobcat to be found. I was beginning to entertain wild thoughts of the entire hood's rat population using my car as a de facto rat refugee camp. Did rats organize? Did they tweet cunning messages like, "Safe house in the Subaru. #fleethebobcats?"
Thankfully, between hysteria and Facebook, there was one moment of sanity. My lovely insurance company (seriously, if I could kiss Geico, I would) did agree to cover the damages and set me up with a rental. The Enterprise guy asked me how long I would need the car. I said, "I don't know. They have to take the whole interior of my Subaru apart."
"What happened?" he asked.
"Rats ate my car."
The look on his face was priceless. The upgrade was not. But, he did give me a deal on a brand new Hyundai something.
Because rats. Trump. Everything.
He showed me the car. It was nice. Shiny, new, with only 25 miles on it. I scribbled my signature on a bunch of forms and declined the optional extra insurance, which made him nervous. "You can always call back and add it on," he said several times. Obviously he was rethinking the wisdom of letting me take a pretty new car into the Garage That Rats Ate.
It was too late. My son had already decided he loved the new car and it's pretty hard to turn down a cute kid and his desperate rat-crazed mom. So the nice Enterprise guy had no choice but to finish up the forms. Only slightly reluctantly, he handed over the keys. "Before you go, let's just take a quick look around the car to inspect it."
"Let me save you the trouble," I said. "I only have one question."
With a look that suggested he was already regretting this entire transaction, he asked, "What do you want to know?"
I smiled.
"Does it come with rats?"
February 22 ... AKA Ratpocalypse, Day 7
For the next few days, the high of driving something 100% rodent-free kept me relatively sane. The exterminator came out Thursday and insisted he saw no signs of rats, but refilled the bait boxes anyway. I started to think maybe I was crazy, maybe the rats were coming from someplace else? Maybe this was all just a terribly hideous nightmare.
And then, as I walked into work on Friday, Alex from Subaru called with this update:
Alex: Hi, we pulled up the flooring in your car and ... it's bad.
Me: How bad? (stupid, stupid question)
Alex: At least 2 major wiring harnesses have been chewed through. The carpets are ruined, they've eaten through the padding underneath and when we pulled it up, there were rat droppings everywhere.
Me: Euwwwww
Alex: So the insurance adjuster's coming out today, but I just wanted to give you a heads and prepare you ... because your car may be totaled.
Me: Oh.My.God.
Alex: I have to tell you, your car was sitting in the shop last night and when I opened the doors this morning? I don't have a weak stomach but it just about made me sick.
Me: (thank you for that visual, Alex) So... you're telling me rats LITERALLY ate my car.
Alex: Yes. Yes, rats LITERALLY ate your car.
That was Friday.
On Saturday, after an 8 am trip to the dentist for emergency retainer repair (because of course my son pulled his expensive retainer out of place, why not add to the joy of Rat Week??), I pulled into the garage and noticed little, black bits of what looked like paper or rubber on the floor beneath where my car would have been parked. Like what you might expect to find, if, say, something was CHEWING on the undercarriage of one's car.
As I stomped into the house and pointed out this evidence to my husband, the bank called. To verify recent purchases.
That I had not made.
Yes. The rats had now infiltrated Bank of America and were clearly out to destroy me.
This.Was.War.
There are few places on earth I loathe more than Home Depot, so the irony was not lost on me, that the rats drove me to this:
Before anyone goes all PETA on me, no I did not buy glue traps. Or any kind of traps because OH MY GOD DEAD RATS??? No. Just. No. Plus I knew we already had bait boxes full of poison, so I augmented those with plug-in sonar devices that supposedly scared away rodents, plus loads of mothballs which I stashed in several corners of the garage, plus all over the ground beneath both cars.
I may have gone slightly overboard with the mothballs, because by Sunday morning the entire house smelled like my Grandma's closet. Glass half full? Didn't smell like rats.
With all signs pointing to an imminent Rodent Rapture, I knew I should get the kids organized for church, but frankly, I just could not get my act together. So instead, I left them with my husband and headed for the gym, hoping a few laps might restore some speck of sanity.
All week I'd had to use my phone number to check in since my gym tag was still dangling on the key chain of the Ratmobile. But when I informed the not-usual-Sunday gym guy that I didn't have my tag, he smirked. "Sorry, you can't work out." I glared at him. "Just kidding!" he snarked. I stopped myself from telling him about the rats in my car, and instead attempted to read the novel tattooed on his arms while he checked me in.
Then, in the pool, there was a gentleman engaged in this elaborate, almost violent poolside stretching routine. For about 10 minutes this went on. It was mesmerizing and confusing at the same time. After the stretching, he then stood there and fiddled with the strings on his swimsuit - for, I kid you not - 5 minutes. (And yes, of course, it was a Speedo. Men of the world, I implore you, just say no to Speedo).
After he'd finished with the drawstring, he got into the water and sat in this sort of zen like pose for another 5 minutes.
THEN he finally started to swim.
For five minutes.
After which, he got back out of the pool and left.
I'll be honest, I was let down -- I expected an Olympic event after all that. But, people in rat cars shouldn't throw stones. Or judge other people's swim techniques. As finished up my laps, the man in the lane next to me told me how impressed he was that my hair had stayed dry (I had it all bunched up on top of my head) and that he had been watching to see if it was going to get wet. Um. Okay.
"Look,"I told him, "I paid good money to color my hair, I'm not dunking it in the pool at LA Fitness." This led to another discussion about hair color and the effects of chlorine vs salt water, and ... I don't really know what we were talking about, because at this point, I became completely convinced I was trapped in my own reality TV show. (The Real Ratwives of Richardson?)
After my lively swim hair convo, I topped things off with a trip to Tom Thumb, because I ran out of coffee filters (how? There are only a million in those packages. I have never run out of them in my life. And yet. This morning. Yes. Blamed the rats).
While I was at the store, I decided to pick up another pound of turkey because out of nowhere, my son was obsessed with honey turkey. And he'd eaten through half the pound I'd bought the day before. As any picky eater parent knows, if you find something remotely healthy they will eat, you buy ridiculous amounts of it until they get sick of it.
The same deli guy who had waited on me yesterday when I bought the first pound of honey turkey, was behind the counter again. He looked totally confused -- the expression on his face clearly said, wait, I've done this before. But instead of saying, "hey, weren't you just here?" he asked me, "How's your day going? I mean ... have you even done anything yet today?" I looked at him and thought, you have no idea, Deli Man.
He shook his head and tried again. "No, wait, I mean, how long have you been up this morning?" He was clearly thrown by the deli deja-vous. I just smiled and waited for my meat. Because sometimes, that's all you can do.
Lesson learned: Next Sunday, go to church.
Next Saturday: buy 2 pounds of turkey.
Sunday evening, I pulled out all the stops in an effort to have a nice, relaxing evening. I had prosecco while the kids played video games (note: ALWAYS have Prosecco when there are video games being played. Nothing dulls the annoying throb of Minecraft like sparkling wine). I put them to bed early and made pasta. Then went back upstairs to get them back to bed.
And again.
And again.
By now the soothing effects of Prosecco had worn off. There may have been some screeching on my part. FINALLY they were in bed for good. And my husband turned on Downton Abbey. Because obviously if you're going to chase away the rat blues, a period piece in England with fabulous costumes and elegant manners is the only choice.
For a while, it worked. Dinner was delicious, Downton was delightful and I was beginning to relax.
And then? A loud rustling noise came from the bushes. My husband made fun of me for jumping, but he couldn't figure out the source of the sound, either. Because of course Facebook has been my sounding board, I had to post something about this (which my husband also made fun of me for doing) and a friend suggested I get a python for my garage.
A Burmese python.
You know? Those horrible, thick, disgusting snakes that plague the Everglades and have been known to crush small children?
Because just when you think things can't get worse, you imagine adding a loathesome predatory snake to the mix of rats frolicking through your garage.
And that is when you realize.
Things can definitely get worse.
Ratpocalypse, Day 11
I went to see my car. My husband thought me insane. You may, too, but some sick impulse compelled me to see the damage the rats had wreaked on my Tribeca. The insurance adjuster had not yet made a decision, and I'm not very good with ambiguity so I decided to take matters into my own hands and see it in the flesh, so to speak.
Warning: don't view these photos while eating.
Because you can't un-see this.
Yeah. That's the back of my car, with the seats and carpet pulled up. Here's another view, a bit closer to the front.
What's that, you say? You'd like to see what the carpet pad looks like? Sure, why not? We're all sickened in this together by this point.
So yes, I can now say with complete confidence: Rats ate my Subaru. And apparently had a small war while they were at it, or the world's biggest rat kegger because the smell? Oh. Dear.Lord.
Subaru Alex said the guys in the auto shop wear gloves and masks while dealing with my car. Oh, insurance adjuster, please make this end. No one should have to work on this - this is a bubonic plague epidemic in the making. Ebola? Please. This kind of rot and despair eats Ebola for breakfast.
Before I left, I did peek into the rotting carcass that used to transport my children to see what I might salvage. One soccer ball, one basketball, one jacket that I promptly threw into the wash along with everything I wore into the dealership as soon as I got home. And then, two small cosmetic bags.
As Subaru Alex was walking me back to the front, I rummaged through the bags. He gave me a funny look, probably wondering why I'd want those after I'd just told him to trash the booster seats. I found what I was looking for -- a small, spray bottle of Mystere cologne, which has been discontinued for like 20 years, and I bought on eBay.
Because they ate my car, they cost thousands of dollars worth of damage, and the sight is still making my skin crawl.
But steal my French perfume? I don't think so, rats. You picked the wrong girl to mess with.
Ratcopalypse Day 13, AKA Leap Day
Geico Shonda called me with an update. She wants Subaru Alex to confirm if the engine's damaged. Subaru Alex says he can't tell anything more unless they fix the car.
Which, deep down, nobody really wants to do.
I feel like a cage match is coming on. My money's on the rats.
Later that night, I am alone in bed and notice some rather disturbingly odd noises. I post this on Facebook: Does anyone have a perfectly logical and reasonable explanation for random house noises that sound like someone is walking around when you know that no one is there? Because I'd really like to know.
The following are some of the answers friends posted. Because I just can't make this stuff up.
Pam: Rats.... (Is it too soon, it's too soon)
Indy-Rae: Rats
Kymberlei: Rats
Jacki: Definitely rats. Cure? Vote for Bernie Sanders tomorrow. He'll eradicate them from your house as well as the White House.
Me: Sorry, I already voted for Hillary. You should have told me about Bernie Sanders' magical rat powers earlier.
Jaymi: Hate to say this...but you might want to see if you have varmints in your walls and/or attic.
Me: Noooooo
Richman: Possums, Coons, Squirrels, Bob Cats?
Me: If there's a bobcat in my house, I wonder if I could pay it to patrol my garage for rats
Niki: Spirits! I know someone that can clear that up for you!
Shelley: Why, ghosts, darling.
Ashley: Temp changes in exterior environment causing expansion of construction materials. Creaks and squeeks.
Shelley: You are no fun, Ashley.
Me: But what explains the noises like footsteps ? Those aren't creaks and squeaks. They are thumps and bumps.
Shelley: Ghosts, I tell ya!
Ashley: Running the hot water? If not properly secured to studs, the expansion from hot water passing through both copper or pvc pipes can cause the pipes to bounce against framing... thumps and bumps...
Shelley: Has ruined ghost stories for you?
Me: I'm not running hot water. But I am giggling and the dog looks like she thinks I'm nuts.
Shelley: It could be a thing...Facebook ghost stories..
Me: I would totally read those! I would like to put in a request for a better ghost, though.
Me (again): And -- it should be noted -- since we started talking about these noises they have stopped. Like they know we are talking about them.
Shelley: Smart little bastards.
Me: With my luck it's probably the ghost...of a rat. Ugh. Dear spirit world, please send me the ghost of something better.
Jason: Old friend. I'm so sorry.You have rats in your house. I don't want to rub it in, but there is at least one spot in your attic that looks like under the carpet in your car.
Me: I hate Leap Day.
Ratcopalypse Day 15
NBC-5 broadcasts a story about rats chewing through wiring. I immediately show this to everyone I know, as proof that I am not insane. Also, I go on the message boards and find a link to a truly horrifying site with all kinds of stories about chewed-up cars, including one that exploded. Is there anything that could possibly be more horrifying than exploding rats? I don't think so.
Ratpocalypse Day 16
Geico Shonda calls me with bad news. Because there is no way to determine engine damage without repairing the rat-damaged wiring harnesses, she has authorized Subaru Alex to repair them. There's a chance this will reveal further damage, but at this point, my car is not totaled.
I, on the other hand, am.
Ratcopalypse Day 17
No more news from Geico Shonda or Subaru Alex, but the NBC-5 message board is chock full of folks who seem to think rats eating cars is perfectly normal and somehow, the fault of the car owner. All except for a guy who is part of the class action suit against Honda and totally gets it. I'm slightly envious, however, because his car was eaten by bunnies, not rats.You have to wonder about the world when cute little rabbits are devouring cars.
Ratcopalypse Day 18
I watch the Republican Debates and something becomes crystal clear. Donald Trump is responsible for the rats in my car. It's the only logical explanation.
Ratcopaylypse Day 20
At last -- a bright spot in the rodent-littered horizon. We go on spring break and drive to Austin on a sunny, rat-free day. Of course, that does not stop everyone I know from posting rat references on all of my Facebook posts (which, by the way, according to my husband, have gotten out of control).
The first day we take in a Baylor basketball game in Waco, drive down to Austin and have one of those rare, blissfully peaceful nights, thanks to the magic that is Green Mesquite BBQ and the outdoor, heated pool.
Sunday night, after more BBQ and swimming, once again everyone in my family goes to sleep. Except me. And so I'm the only one up reading when the couple next door launches what can only be described as the Viagra Olympics. After about an hour, this takes a riveting detour into domestic violence that I think may have arisen over an argument over certain paid services. I can't be sure, but between the tossing of furniture I did hear quite a bit of yelling about a "bitch" and "money."
I call the front desk. I call them again. I give up. At 430 am, the entire thing starts up again. Needless to say, I get little sleep. That sets the tone for the rest of the trip, which, while action-packed, is less than relaxing.
On the last day, I take the boys swimming and learn from another Dallas vacationer that tornadoes are stirring up trouble back home and there's an expected lull during the afternoon before the bad weather starts back up again. I tell my husband we'd better get going, and he suggests I take the boys down for breakfast while he gets ready. As we head into the lobby for the overpriced buffet to supplement the overpriced froot loops they've already consumed poolside, I notice something strange.
The lobby is jam-packed with men. Which on the surface is not weird because -- a conference, right? Except usually conferences are not all guys. And I'm not seeing the suits or the khaki/polo-clad business casual crowd. More like the heavily tattooed, pierced and denim-clad crowd. And as I walk through the crowd milling around tables set up with pamphlets and strange machines that some of the guys are breathing into, I'm suddenly conscious of the fact that everyone is staring at me and the kids. A man who appears to be in charge starts yelling, "Everybody back in the room, NOW!" That's kind of bossy for a meeting, I think.
But, we continue on our way and hit the buffet where naturally, no one eats anything. Then we head back through the lobby, where my husband has asked us to bring up a luggage cart. "We" get a cart ... and by that I mean, I push the cart while the combined 110 pounds of my boys take a joyride. I somehow manage to get us onto the elevator.
When the doors open on the 14th floor, a woman in a headset is angrily explaining to someone on the phone that, "I have hundreds of men here ready to take drug tests, what do you mean you aren't coming?"
I shove the cart past Drug Test Lady and as I round the corner, I see we've a slight problem. You know that hallway in high school where all the cool kids hung out and it was slightly intimidating to walk through? Well, sub in "sketchy guys" for "cool kids" and sub in "hotel" for "high school" and you get the picture. I'll give the guys credit, though. They only slightly heckle me as my kids totally ignore my requests for help with the cart. Thanks, boys.
We finally make it into the room, load up the cart, pass back through the hall of shame and hit the road. My youngest son demonstrates the power of 3 solid days of root beer consumption and goes completely bonkers the entire drive home. I won't lie. There was cursing (me), smacking of legs (me) and hysterical screeching laughter (kids).
There was also a stop at the Buc-ee's in Temple, Texas, where my kids beg for soccer balls imprinted with Buc-ee the beaver and I beg for a metal rooster that looks just like a tiny cousin to Beyonce the chicken (from the best blog post of all times, and if you haven't read it, please do so right here).
Alas, I say no to the beaver balls (snicker) and my husband says no to the chicken.
We make it home.
The kids go to bed very early because Mommy? Is done.
My husband goes out with the guys because he? Is also done.
Ratcopalypse Day 24
Three days after we return home, something magical happens. Geico Shonda calls me. Apparently the carpet in my car has been discontinued and nobody makes it anymore. Which means....MY CAR IS TOTALED!!!!!!!!!!
I rejoice in the only way befitting such a ridiculous spectacle -- by posting my fabulous news on Facebook. I feel like we've all come on this journey together, after all. My husband makes fun of me (again) because I make a last minute dash out for flowers and a Starbucks gift card for Geico Shonda, and cookies/brownies for Subaru Alex and all the guys unlucky enough to touch my car. I mean, it's the least I can do.
We meet Shonda and give her the title. She gives me a check. I get my husband to take a photo.
Ten minutes later, we are at Subaru of Plano, going through our car one more time. They've put the seats back in and vacuumed, which is really a shame because now my husband does not get the full picture of grotesque rat revelry. But, Subaru Alex does show him the wiring and at last, he believes. I think.
I want to take a photo with Subaru Alex but I sense my husband's patience is waning. Also, he looked pretty disgusted when I made him take a picture of me and Geico Shonda, so I'm not pushing my luck. We say goodbye to the car that took us from NYC to Texas and that drove my second child home from the hospital. My husband says, "Lot of memories in that car."
Somehow, I can't get sentimental as I point out. "Lot of rats in that car, too."
Since our fabulously kind neighbor has taken the kids to a movie, we decide to try test-driving a couple of cars while we're out. The Toyota Highlander is nice, though the dealer seems shaken when my husband asks if they offer any kind of rat protection.
The Acura MDX is nicer. But the touch screen confuses me. The salesman misinterprets just how tech-stupid I am, however, by pointing out the plus and minus signs for the temperature control. "See," he says helpfully, "you push the plus sign when you want it hotter. You push the minus sign to make it cooler."
Honestly. I'm not an idiot.
Or maybe I am.
Because after the test drive, I'm sitting with the sales guy and he's pointing out some warranty something and I'm nodding and then I look down at my shirt.
Which has come unbuttoned. Like, halfway-down-my-chest unbuttoned.
There is no way to be discreet here. He sees it, I see it. I just have to turn around and button back up and pretend like nothing happened. But at that point, this visit is pretty much shot.
I hold it together long enough to get out of the dealership. But as we get back into the rental car, I start to giggle. My husband gives me a look that can only be described as pained. I explain that I just inadvertently flashed the sales guy.
"Hey, way to get us a discount," is his chivalrous reply.
I mean. It's not enough they destroyed my car; now the rats have taken my dignity.
But, glass half full -- I will be getting a rodent-free car out of this mess. And I feel like this journey has given me a new perspective on life.
Because the next time you're having a bad day, remember this:
At least rats haven't eaten your car.
And at least you haven't flashed your bra to a 50 year old Acura salesman.
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