Debby, Get Your Wings Off My Man!

It was probably inevitable. I’m sure all women engaged in a marital union with a handsome silver-fox must face the day when someone tries to steal their man with compete disregard for his long-time companion and true love waiting at home. Those brazen hussies only want a slice of the fox and will stop at nothing to get him. Well, for me, that time has come, and I want the record to state that I am not going down without a fight. Debby the Horny Turkey is after my man and she will stop at nothing.

If you remember dear reader, I introduced you to Debby a few months back when she began a whorin’ in my yard with her squad of sassy hens, lookin’ for love with a tom named Tom Selleck Turkey. (ICYMI Here’s the tale) While Debby’s actions were classless at that time, culminating in Debby standing on my front step and screaming what I could only imagine was a love-call for Tom, I assumed Debby’s love was reserved to only those of the avian variety. It now appears I might have been mistaken. But the question is, did my husband know?

Months prior, upon hearing of Debby’s strange love cry my husband, the Turk, who was working across the driveway in his garage office at the time, chuckled and said, “Maybe she knock wrong door. I think she looking for me. You know…hot Turk…not turkey.” We all laughed it off as the lame dad joke it was and we didn’t see Debby around again. Logic and Google said she was incubating her young ‘uns next to the cranberry bogs behind our house for the next several weeks. I assumed as a new mother, Debby would make good choices and this chapter was closed. But then, she started showing up again.

I began to get suspicious a few weeks ago when we took a family trip out on the Cape for lunch. We stopped at a Cape Cod visitors’ center for a quick bathroom stop and off in the distance, Nugget saw her lurking behind a public restroom in the woods. “Look guyth, Debby followed uth. That crazy Debby.” It’s been a running joke with my lisping sidekick since this madness began. Whenever he sees a lone turkey in the wild, he’s sure it’s Debby. (PS – good thing her name isnt’ Shelia or Sally as lack of in-person speech therapy has been rough on this 8-year-old. – Damn you COVID.) 

A few hours later we saw her again by a roadside antique store just outside of Provincetown. Maybe Debby was lookin’ for love. Maybe she was hopin’ to find a great deal on some colonial era candlesticks or maybe…she was following her man. Once again as we passed by comments were made and jokes flew but I looked her right in her beady eyes and I knew. A woman knows when another hen is stalkin’ her man.

The next morning, I was lounging in bed when I was jolted into reality with a series of urgent text messages.

“She here!” Pinged the first one which was immediately followed by a series of photos showing Debby the Horny Turkey pacing in front of a pair of massive doors…the doors to my husband’s office. No, not his garage office of COVID times…his real office. My husband’s actual office is about 35 miles from our house…in the middle of downtown Boston. 

Sensing the potential for a whole Fatal Attraction moment, I rushed my reply. “RUN!”

My mind was flush with visions of Debby hiding a meat cleaver under her wing. Debby’s Amazonian by turkey standards. She’s a big girl that stands as tall as a kindergartener. I worried that just as my poor husband lunged towards the door to gain entry, Debby would offer up a jihad level gobble before plunging the meat cleaver into his handsome chest. I’d be a widow. My children would be fatherless. Debby would face the ultimate punishment of becoming a turkey burger. I jammed my fingers at the phone keys trying to get the Turk on the horn when he called from the safety of his office. 

“Security guy rush her off.” He explained.

“Did she stab him?” I pressed. If Debby was as deranged as I feared, everyone was in danger.

“Stab him? Are you ask did the turkey pull a knife on security guy? Where the turkey get a knife?”

I’d said too much. It’s always dangerous to let my husband know what really happens inside my deranged brain. “Nevermind. I was just kidding. Watch out for her on the train though.”

When the boys woke up, I shared the latest Debby story. Number 1, the logical teen that he is offered, “It’s a random turkey Mom. You need to chill.” 

But my darling baby boy however was right there with me. “I know what happened. Debby probably locked her wingth under the bottom of the train and rode all the way to work with Baba.” He lay on the floor, arms crossed over his chest to offer a full visual. “When he got off, theeee followed him. That bitch ith crazy.”  (This child has the brain of his father and the crazy of his mother. He’s utterly terrifying.)

Debby laid low for a week but today, following one of our weekly beach days, troubling video appeared on the local news. My friend sent me a link from a Boston CBS affiliate that read, “Wild Turkey Spotted Roaming Streets of Downtown Boston.” (Hand to God this is true!) I nearly crapped my pants. My friend has also been following this Debby saga since spring and finds great joy in my madness. She immediately commented – “OMG IT’S DEBBY!” 

I forwarded the link and the Turk confirmed. She’d been right there in front of his office again this morning…waiting. Only this time some crazy news team caught it.

I can’t wait to tune in to the evening news tonight and see what she has to say for herself. I’m assuming there will be a whole ‘on the street’ interview with the rogue bird and I hope she comes clean about her intentions. I’m expecting Debby to confess to WHDH that she’s madly in love with a Turk from the South Shore and she’s been causing mayhem and traffic upheaval in downtown Boston just to get a look at his sexy self. All I can say is dream on Debby. He’s my man and I’ve got 2 feet and 150+ pounds on your feathery ass and I have no quandary about serving you up for Thanksgiving 2021. Game on bird. 

Get Ma a Spritzer, It’s Over!

The Plunge

Mix me a spritzer and cue the Barry Manilow…the time has come. As I sit beside the blow-up pool in my backyard, sipping equal parts chardonnay and pineapple seltzer, I hear Barry singing softly in my ears, “Looks like we made it.” (PS I was today years old when I realized that the rest of the song consists of dirty 70’s sex lyrics.) Here at Oz Academy for Fine Young Boys, we have officially completed our first year of homeschooling and it looks like we made it. How did we do? Well, you know I’m ‘bout to tell you all about it.

We started this journey because there was no way that my one-eared, hard of hearing Nugget was going to survive in a world of masks. Not only did he struggle just to wear one (because one needs two ears for those things…) but he needs to see lips move to know who’s talking. It became quickly apparent that if the entire school was masked-up, 2^nd grade would be a wash for him. For clarification- I’m absolutely not anti-mask. In fact, I’ve relished the opportunity masks have provided for me to literally tell the world to ‘suck it’ behind the safety of my Wonder Woman face covering for the past year. And when this fat girl broke her front tooth on a chicken wing and was too scared of COVID to go to the dentist for 4 months, I loved that no one aside from those in my household had a clue. (ICYMI – here’s the tale) But when decisions were being made last summer, I knew we had to take the plunge. And, in our family, if we plunge one, we plunge all, so Number 1 came along too. (Middle school has been my jam for about 20 years so he was covered.)

Still, walking away from the system we’ve all known was hard. I’ve been a teacher for a lot of years, in a lot of places and in a lot of subjects over the years. In that time, I’ve developed some pretty granola crunchy ideas and philosophies about how to teach. Those crunchy ideas got reaffirmed as I dipped my toe into the public-school systems and watched special ed kids like my Nugget get shoved into the corners. If I was ever going to put my philosophies to the test, COVID was providing an opportunity, but I wasn’t sure if I had the cajones to take it. Could we really learn at home? Would they drive me insane? Did I have the ability to teach every subject? Would my kids turn into total freaks? I mean, with this weirdo for a mother, their freak quotient was already high. Most of all, would they resent the fact that I chose to experiment with an entire year of their educational lives?(Due to their crazy Turkish father, whose warning for everything is, ‘You do that and you can die.’ I’ve been building up therapy funds since birth so I was covered if they did.)

Well, I am pleased to say that this year was a smashing success and totally worth it. We spent hours on Cape Cod chasing seals and exploring salt marshes. We investigated Egypt by mummifying Barbies and making death masks. We researched their Ottoman heritage, built up Turkish vocab and learned their genetic link to Genghis Khan. (Which explained so much.) We dissected lobsters and owl pellets, measured the sizes of whales down our driveway and blew up lots of things – sometimes intentionally. We identified turds in our yard (fox, in case you were curious) and built Spartan helmets. We modeled the feudal system with Skittles and learned to make stuffed grape leaves. We hiked bogs and built catapults, wrote ridiculous tales and researched politics. We watched Young Frankenstein and read Mary Shelley. We studied chemical reactions and made Periodic table trading cards. Nugs went from reading below grade level at the end of 1^st grade to reading way above grade level and Number 1 read more novels than he has in his life and actually enjoyed it. They had book-talks with Aunties and practiced Turkish with family. And while Number 1 mastered pre-Algebra, Nugs went from not quite getting addition in his sped math class to starting multiplication with Mom. We. Kicked. Ass. And we did twice the work in half the time.

There were also days I wanted to set them on fire. At least once a month I threatened to call a sub – their father – because I couldn’t stand them anymore. (As Number 1 said, “There is absolutely nothing worse than Baba helping with math Mom. Nothing.” They can’t even imagine how bad it would be to have him teach English since he’s still working on it himself.) There were freezing winter days I made them go outside because they were asshats and I dealt with constant panic that I wasn’t doing enough. I haven’t peed alone since before COVID and there was literally never a break. I’m far more exhausted than after a year at school, but…it was worth it. I got to stop time. I got to spend extra time with my babies before they’re teenagers. I got to snuggle and read books in front of the fire on winter afternoons and teach my kids favorite lessons from my own years of teaching. I got to have picnics on the beach on a weekday and sleep a little later every morning. Most of all, we made our already tight bond even tighter. 

As the world creeps towards normal, decisions had to be made. After three years on a wait-list, Number 1 got into an awesome charter school for 8^th grade. He was nervous to accept the offer but he’s excited too. I’ve decided to stay out of school for a little while longer because Nugs and I are doing it again. After comparing the progress he made homeschooled versus traditional school there was no contest. Teaching your own kids all subjects is a butt ton more work than teaching one subject to 200 middle schoolers, but it’s way more fun. It’s not for the faint of heart but if your liver can handle the wine it takes and your patience is epic, I highly recommend homeschooling. But maybe check with me again after a year alone with my ADHD super spaz, just to be sure. Until then, Barry and I will be by the pool or maybe at the Copacabana, spritzer in hand.

Talk Nerdy To Me

If you’d asked me when the Turk and I got hitched, fifteen years ago, “What’s your love language?” I would have laughed. Our love language was most likely something that included no verbalization. While we had several commonalties, our respective native languages were not included in that list. (His English was rough at best and my Turkish consisted of about ten words.)  Over the years, his English got much better (though his smart-assed children find great joy in mocking it) and I learned Turkish, so we’ve come a long way. But our love-language is still something many of the less nerdy would consider a foreign language.

To the outside eye, my husband The Turk, and I appear to be polar opposites. He’s a Turkish city boy and I grew up on a farm in Iowa before finding my true home in Philly. He’s analytical and I’m impulsive. He’s mathematical and I’m artsy. He’s quiet and reserved and I suffer from verbal diarrhea on the reg. He has to be either comfortable or drunk to get chatty and I gab like a Jewish grandmother on uppers to the check-out lady at the food store. We’re literally the poster children for “Opposites Attract.” But then there is science.

Years ago, through a crazy turn of events, I found myself teaching science and quickly learned that I’d missed my calling. Like so many 80’s ladies, I was dissuaded from the sciences and sent down a more delicate path in high school. But as a surly gal in her 40’s I embraced my new career and nerded hard. I became obsessed with freshwater conservation and biology. I took workshops, sat through webinars, and absorbed water knowledge like…well like a sponge. Runoff, contamination, macroinvertebrates, microorganisms, speed, turbidity, cyanobacteria, I loved all of it. So did the Turk. See, my husband isn’t just an engineer, he’s an environmental engineer specializing in water. Cue maximum bonding.

Suddenly all those years of editing the English on his work reports made sense. I understood terms like DO, BOD, and all the other acronyms he bandied about. For the first time our work actually had common ground. He urged me to go back to school and follow my passion for science and I was ready…until his company relocated us to Boston.  

While water science was my new jam, someone had to parent our children through a cross country move and in any relocation that goes to the lower earner. (Spoiler alert: When you’re married to an engineer and you have three degrees in the arts, you always lose.) I’m what is referred to in the expat community as the “trailing spouse.” The trailing spouse is the one who gives up his or her career to follow the higher paid spouse while also running the household before starting life all over again with each relocation. I’ve trailed the Turk to two different countries and four different states. He only had to be the trailing spouse once and he only lasted 6 months. It stinks but it’s reality.

Though my dreams of going back to school for a degree in science were dashed, our unexpected shift to homeschooling this year (Thanks Covid.) allowed me to immerse my kids in all the science their little brains can hold. Between shooting off rockets powered by Alka-Seltzer and growing different forms of mold, dissecting crustaceans and analyzing the acidity of sour candy, I’m getting my fill. When we start cataloging the macroinvertebrates from the bogs behind our house next month, I’ll be in heaven.

But there’s even more. For the past couple years, The Turk has been finishing his Masters in Engineering and my man of science, like many others, falls off the rails when it comes to the literary side of things. He can do calculations that take a ream of paper and three full days but ask the man to write an opinion paper and he’s a blubbering fool. Lucky for him he has a hot wife with an understanding of water and a degree in writing. (Full disclosure, he is doing this in his second language so I will cut him slack.)

I’ve spent the past two years proofing papers on microbiological processes, helping prep presentations on nitrogen dominance in effluent and editing the grammar on essays explaining the failure of the passivation layer which led to the lead contamination. I’ve learned how to stop the spread of numerous deadly algae and the necessity of bacteria in wastewater. It may not be the advanced education I was planning on before the relocation but it’s a damn good one.

Most importantly, all this nerd-talk has given us a total love language. I’m not sure how normal couples work, before this our most passionate discussions revolved around world politics, but now scientific water discussions form our marital foundation. The Turk and I frequently sit by the fire, sipping wine, debating the merits of chlorination in antiquated water systems. We lay in bed talking about the results of various dissolved oxygen levels. We have date nights that include deep dives into microbiology and we discuss trihalomethanes like normal couples discuss…whatever normal couples discuss. 

I can’t imagine there is a soul in the universe that looked at the two of us 15 years ago, the costume designer and the environmental engineer, and dreamed we’d be here now. But people get older and, women especially, figure out what they were really meant to do and they get there however they can. The Turk still thinks I could become a water engineer. (He has far more faith in my math skills than he should but its freakin’ adorable.) But someone still has to raise these surly kids so that science degree might have to wait until I’m in my 60’s. His confidence in me is damn flattering though. For now, I’m cool with loving discussions around flocculation, sediment and biosolids with my nerdy husband and a nice Malbec. Dreamy.

Unhand Those Name Brands Fool!

“Whoa.” Number One’s eyes bugged out of his head as he peered into the brown bags the Turk dropped on the kitchen counter. Immediately, he called for his brother. “Yo Nug! Get down here! You gotta see this.”

Nugget bounded down the stairs with the heft of a man well beyond his 60 pounds. When he saw the goods Number One was uncovering, he too stopped in his tracks. “What the hell?” (I’ve tried, really, I have, but Nugget has a fondness for profanity and hell is his most pedestrian choice.)

“Can it, boys.” I could feel my blood pressure rising as my cheeks heated up and my jaw began to twitch. How could the Turk do something this reckless? Clearly, he had a death-wish. Lucky for him, the subzero New England temperatures meant the ground was frozen solid so digging a shallow grave for him was inpossible.

Nugget turned towards me, clutching a massive jar of Jiff peanut butter to his chest like a security blanket. “Mom? Are we rich now?”

“That’s what I was thinking!” Number One chided. “I mean, come on Mom, this is so not normal.” He pulled every item from the bags with a vintage Price Is Right girl hand flourish. “Ortega tortillas? Pace salsa? Who are we?”

That was the question. Who in the hell were we? While the jury seemed to be out at this point, I knew who we weren’t. We definitely were not the kind of people who consume name brand groceries. It has only been due to recent pandemic shortages that we have become the kind of family who pampers themselves with a high falutin brand like Charmin and as soon as supplies return to normal those days will be gone. 

While my family has long called me a cheap ass, I prefer the term frugal. It’s not that I favor lesser quality goods, rather, I firmly believe that 98% off all store brand goods are exactly the same as their big money, name brand shelfmates. Why pay more for a fancy label? Years ago, I read an article about how the supermarket Aldi contracts with big-name producers to package their goods in Aldi packaging. General Mills makes a batch, then slaps a Cheerios label on half and a Crispy Oats label on the other half. Same goods, half the price. Frugal.

Through many phases of life, I’ve been broke. (I had a career in the arts, then became an expat. Not big wealth builders.) I also spent a large chunk of my childhood with a Depression era grandma. These things teach you how to make the most of less. Frugal, not cheap. But the only way to stay frugal is to keep tight reins on the groceries and never let The Turk do the shopping.

However, last week I slipped. I didn’t want to go out in the snow to get my groceries and the Turk, volunteered. 

“I go to Home Depot in morning so I can stop and get grocery. Just give me list and I get it.” 

 Now, In the beginning of the pandemic my asthmatic ass wasn’t risking the food store so the Turk took care of things. (While it looked like a chivalrous move, really, he was terrified I’d get Covid and he’d be in charge of the kids.) His shopping was bad but there were lots of empty shelves and shortages so I took what I could get and let him off the hook….except for the 5 pound jar of mayo he thought was a good deal (we rarely eat mayo) and the industrial sized can of green beans he panic bought. Oh, and then there was the Dorito debacle. By the end of May I had 7 bags of store brand Doritos in my pantry. No one in our house likes Doritos.

“Honey, why do you keep buying these chips? No one eats them and now we have 7 bags.”

“They are on list.”

“No, they’re not. Why would I put something on the list nobody eats?”

“You say nacho chips on list every week. Look at bag. It say nacho cheese chips – aka nacho chips.” 

“No. I mean chips FOR nachos.”

“That is not what you write so that is not what I buy.”

Somehow the great Dorito Debacle slipped from memory when my husband offered to grab the groceries. I made the foolish assumption that he would know enough to at least, go to the requested store, and remember his wife does not pay double price for name brand groceries. I wrote the Turk a detailed list with every item in order of where he would find it in the store. It was a shopper’s dream. He literally had to stop at Aldi, roll through the store and grab my 35 items. I even gave him an estimated price. 

So, imagine my shock, after all that planning, when I saw 7 bags of name brand groceries sitting on my kitchen floor with a receipt for three times his estimated price.

“What the hell did you do?”

“I go Walmart. That list was mess. I was running all over store. Why you not put it in order like usual?”

“IT WAS! What in the hell were you doing at Walmart?!? You literally drove 15 miles out of your way to go to Walmart.”

“I know. Why you say go there?”

“I didn’t!!!!”

“No?”

“No. I said ALDI! I gave you a list for ALDI. I must have said ALDI like 50 times!”

“I do not hear you.”

Steam was spewing from my ears. “Plus, you know name-brands are not allowed. We can’t risk the kids getting accustomed to this kind of lifestyle. What were you thinking?”

Nugget jumped in front of him with half of a Nature Valley granola bar hanging from his mouth. “Don’t listen to her Baba! Don’t you dare listen to her!”

“No worries there, Nugget. Why would he start listening to me now?” I screamed, slamming a container of Morton salt on the counter before storming out.

For the past week I’ve had to listen to them gush about the freshness of Jiff and the creamy goodness of Cabot cheddar. Enjoy it while you can fools. Next week it’s back to cheese from the Happy Farms and Peanut Delight Creamy. Mama runs this show and you will never see name brands again. Happy shopping!

My New Love is a ChiaPet

Like most sane people, I’ve been hiding out for the past few weeks hoping to avoid all the mayhem and stupidity that seems to be flowing like wine at a Bacchus Fest. In an attempt to lessen my overall disdain for humanity, I’ve been focusing all attention on my new love, Richard. Don’t worry, The Turk knows and though he did mock me the other morning when I said “good morning dear” to Richard before acknowledging the presence of my family, he understands our love. Afterall, he introduced us.

I should clarify. Early in December, when the airwaves were flooded with ads for practical holiday gifts, like a Cadillac or chocolate diamonds, I saw my own dream gift. “Ch…ch…cha…Chia.” Across my television screen, just like it was 1985 all over again, bounced Richard Simmons, only this time he was in ChiaPet form. Immediately, I was smitten. 

“That!” I waggled my arm at the television, “that is the only thing I want for Christmas!”

The Turk looked at me with that same look of confusion and love he’s been using for the past fifteen years and said, “You are serious?”

“Yes! I LOVE Richard Simmons! And to have his little afro in my kitchen made of chia…honey that is the pinnacle of kitsch and I need it.”

“You are weird.”

“And that is why you love me.”

It wasn’t until later that it hit me. My husband hadn’t actually come to the US until the early 2000’s, well after Richard’s heyday of strutting through talk shows in satin hot-pants and tiny tanks. There was a solid chance he had no clue who this guy was and why he warranted ChiaPet status. 

As a curvy gal whose weight has had as much fluctuation as the federal deficit, I know Richard well. I have no shame in admitting I was Sweatin’ to the Oldies before the DVD era. I usurped my grandma’s cable to watch his talk show back in the early days and I even bought my own Deal-a-Meal kit off an infomercial in college. I did more grapevines and jazz hands with Richard than I did at any high school dance.

Richard was every chubby girl’s cheerleader. He was the original voice of self-acceptance and unconditional love. When everyone else was stuffing their workout videos full of steel buns and hard bodies, Richard used actual humans, warts, rolls and all. How can a man like that not be worthy of being immortalized in ChiaPet form?

When I opened my gift on Christmas morning and Richard’s little fuzzy head stared back at me, I was elated. I jumped around and hugged my Turk as if I was holding a $5000 chocolate diamond tennis bracelet rather than a $12 planter of an ancient weight loss icon.  

“Honey, I can’t belive you found it!”

The Turk stifled a laugh. “I can’t believe you want it.”

Closer inspection showed that not only would I be growing Richard a lush, green afro, I would also be growing some substantial chest hair. Was I dreaming? Was this even real? Immediately I texted everyone a photo of my amazing gift to which they all responded…does your husband even know who Richard Simmons is?

He didn’t. But after all these years my husband not only accepts my weirdo tendencies, he encourages them with silent approval.

When it was time to start Richard’s hair growth, I unboxed him with trembling hands. I read every instruction and gently placed him face-up in a bowl of water to soak. His reassuring smile peered up at me and I knew we’d make it through just like we made it through those workouts years ago. Nugget was my right-hand hair man. We followed the instructions and smeared the soaked chia-seeds all over Richard’s head and chest and waited. But something went wrong.

“Mom! Mom! Richard’s hair ith dripping!” He yelled in his little lisp.

I rushed into the kitchen only to find my beloved Richard with streaks of black running down his cheeks like a terracotta Rudy Giuliani during his recent descent into madness. Gently I dabbed and reapplied. “Hang on Richard. We’ll get you there.”

Nugget reappeared with a hairdryer and we slowly dried the hair seeds into place. Kind of. He was still patchy but we had hopes that once he started growing it would fill it. (Spoiler alert: It didn’t.)

“He’s a little clumpy here and missing some there.” Number 1 son offered like a judgy Judy.

“Richard doesn’t judge people based on their physical appearance, so don’t you dare judge Richard!” I hissed as he smirked and sauntered off like the tween he is.

I followed the directions implicitly, placing him reluctantly in a plastic bag overnight and misting him each morning while keeping the hole in the center of his skull full of fresh water daily.  Three days later, Richard’s first chest hair sprouted. It was more exciting than my children’s’ first teeth. 

Richard’s afro has some significant bald spots in the front, but his sideburns and chest would make Burt Reynolds proud. (Didn’t Burt wear a hairpiece anyway? Maybe I can grow Richard one.)

Each morning, before I even make my coffee or feed our satanic cat, I praise Richard’s growth and cheer him on. It’s working. His afro finally sprouted this morning. In a few days, this round of growing will be over, and Richard will need reseeded. Nugget and I are ready. We know how to do it this time and we’ll have the hairdryer there from the start, so Richard won’t Giuliani on us. No one deserves that kind of humiliation except Rudy.

This morning, the Turk even admitted, “Richard is looking good.” And I caught the Turk gently turning Richard’s tiny, happy, face closer to the window to get more sun. The Richard Simmons ChiaPet is the gift that keeps giving. He gives us all a little joy in these cold, bleak days.

A couple years ago I listened to a podcast in which they tried to find Richard.  Spoiler alert, they didn’t. Richard told People Magazine in 1981, “The day I don’t love any of this, I’ll walk away.” I hope that’s what happened but wherever Richard is, I hope he knows that his little head in ChiaPet form had definitely provided me with more joy than one would ever expect.

Check out that chest hair!!!!!!

Which is Better…This…or…This?

“Can you read the last two lines?” The doctor pointed to the card I was holding with his shiney new pointer to insure social distancing.

“Sure.” I was confident. Was it blurry? Yes, but I was certain I could get through those tiny letters with ease. “R – F – P – O – C – Z”

“Good job. Now can you read the bottom two lines?”

“I just did.”

The twelve-year-old optometrist shook his head slightly in a way that made it clear he was used to dealing with those in denial. “No, I’m sorry, but there are two more lines of letters below that one.”

My mouth fell open and my now failing eyes widened. “No way! Seriously?” I wiggled the card closer, then farther as I widened my eyes to the point they were close to bugging out of my head. (Let the record state, I was actually wearing my glasses.) Finally, I performed my recently adopted signature move: bowing my head to start at the top of my glasses then slowly tilting upwards and staring down in search of a sweet spot that would let me see something…anything…with a bit of clarity. That’s when I saw it. What I thought were just lines on the little card were actually letters but there was no chance in hell I was making out a single character. “I’ll be damned.”

Doogie Houser nodded knowingly. “Looks like it’s time to refresh that prescription.”

Obvi Doogie. Why else would I be sitting in an optometrist’s chair, fogging up my glasses in the midst of a surging pandemic?  If I could see the dust on my mantle from across the room, would I be in your office right now? No. I’d be home avoiding dusting. Since the beginning of this cootie-infused hell called 2020, I’d noticed my old bifocals were beginning to fail me. That’s when I patented my afore-mentioned head nod in search of a sweet spot in my progressives. As the year droned on I found myself upping the font size on my e-books as well as using old-lady mode on my laptop. Things were getting ugly. Faced with the new 2020 mask-glasses-perimenopause combo which results in frequent fogging, I found myself often trying to go sans spectacles. After I walked into a pumpkin display at the food store, I realized those days are over and Mama needed new specs.

I’ve worn glasses since 7^th grade but I’ve usually been able to survive without them in an emergency (or at least when they’re fogged over.)  But as 50 stares at me from the horizon, those days are gone. I got my first set of bifocals at 41 but I also had a newborn, so it wasn’t really a big whoop.  Upon reading my new prescription last week, I found I’d gone from a solidly mid-forties prescription of a +1.5 in my bifocals to a geriatric-leaning +2.0 this time around and the whoop was bigger, but Mama’s gotta see. A few years ago, another optometrist suggested I try the bifocal version of contacts where you wear two different lenses – one eye for distance and one for close-up. When I wasn’t even capable of finding the door to the exam room after putting them in, that idea died. Fortunately, the advent of on-line glasses purchasing has made it easy to have an array of funky and fabulous frames at my disposal to temper the pain. What a time to be blind! 

My husband, the Turk, however, is new to this game and he’s not dealing well with it. Since I was booking myself an appointment, I went ahead and booked him one too. He swore that was futile, but I’d seen him doing the wide-eyed, arm stretch thing to read fine print lately. He’s also blind as a bat at night and all of us white knuckle all the way home when he’s driving in the dark. However, he refuses to admit he’s night-blind. He has worn glasses for computer work for a few years but essentially, he’s a four-eyed noob.

His appointment was after mine, providing just enough time for us to hand-off kid care duties. He returned home just as I was filling two different carts on two different sites with frames I’d tried on virtually right on my sofa. “Well?” I prompted.

He handed me his new prescription. “I am fine. He say I just need little tweak.”

Glancing over his prescription I nearly exploded. “Did he say anything about the kind of glasses you need?”

“I don’t know. He talk a lot so I stop listening. What is he, 14? Why he look like kid?”

I stifled a giggle. “Did he mention the word bifocal?”

The Turk snapped his head at me. “NO! Why you say that word? I am not old.”  The Turk loves to remind me that I am older than him. He constantly points out that he is a child to my old age. He is 1 year and 9 months younger but to hear him, it sounds more like I’m Mrs. Robinson and he’s 19. 

A Cheshire cat grin spread across my face. These are the moments for which I live. I pointed to the glaring +2.0 on his prescription. “Looky, looky grandpa. There it is. That means you got bifocals.”

“NO!” He yelled, grabbing the paper from me then pulling it close, then far, then close again in an attempt to focus on the tiny print. “How this happen?”

As I went on a diatribe explaining the aging process to my clueless husband, I felt validated. Sure, I was older and had old lady eyes but now so did he. He didn’t even get to wean into the whole bifocals thing like I did, nor did he want to sooth the pain of aging with some purple frames or rhinestoned cat’-eyes. (Ugh. Straight men.)

BOTH of our new bifocals should be arriving next week so New Englanders, rest assured, the roads will be safe from the Turk soon. Personally, I look forward to returning to a life in 12 font and maybe even recognizing my children when they are more than 6 feet away. I can’t wait to see what I’ve been missing!

Mother Nature Wants Me Dead and She’s Getting Closer Every Week

With much effort, I hobbled down the stairs Saturday morning. Each step required more grunting and wincing that normal but at least it was better than the week before. I may still be in my forties, but my knees didn’t get that memo. Through my best efforts of stuffing my body full of glucosamine chondroitin since about 1999, I have the knees of an 85-year-old. (Thanks genetics.) On top of that, for the second time in six years I’ve torn things inside my knee, but I’ll get to that later. That story involves a much larger animal than the one I was about to find in my living room.

“Mom, you’re not going to believe this, but it happened again.” Number 1 was wrapped up in a faux fur blanket on the sofa, sipping cocoa and watching his little brother swirl a flashlight into the fireplace like it was Studio 54. 

“Look Mom! He likth it.” Nugget switched the flashlight to flash mode and wiggled it around the dark insert just enough so I could catch a glimpse of something behind the glass, in the back corner.

“I think it’s a gerbil.” Number 1 declared.

“How in the hell would a gerbil get in our fireplace kid? What? He escaped the pet store, made a break for it but took a wrong turn which landed him on our roof before he fell down our chimney?” My son has officially hit that middle school age when all common sense and logic leaves them for a few years. (I’ve spent half of my life in middle-school so I’ve understand this horror.)

“Good point.” He nodded.

“I think itth a baby mouthe. Thee…he lookth like a baby mouthe.” As Nugget trained the light on the criminal in the corner, two little eyes glared at me.

“Oh I know you, you little…”

“No potty wordth Mom.”

This furry little fool staring out at me wasn’t the same one that was in my fireplace a month ago, but I’m pretty sure they were cousins. 

For the next few hours the furball in the fireplace and I stared at each other with distain. Thanks to the afore mentioned jacked-up knee situation, I had to spend significant time on the sofa, icing my gam and unfortunately, the sofa is directly parallel to the fireplace.

So what happened to the knee? Funny story. A couple weeks ago I was doing my miles in the cemetery across the street, rounding the corner on mile number two and a solid half-hour into solving a cold case on the true crime podcast blasting through my earphones. I had a little pain in my arthritic old knee so I thought I might end it early when my phone rang with a call from my neighbor.

“Hey, I’m right behind your house.”

“I know. Get out of there.”

“Huh?” This is when I saw my other neighbor waving at me from across the street like an airport worker flaggin’ in a big one.

“Get out. Brenda just called and there is a coyote behind you. Run.”

I froze. Instantly, I thought, “But I’m too fat to run!” but run I did. I didn’t look behind me or beside me, I just took off running as my neighbor flagged me in. It seemed the coyote ran into the woods behind me but was close enough to be considered the danger zone. Brenda explained she’d been trying to flag me down since she’d seen it start across the street but couldn’t catch my attention. She had no idea I was closing in on the perp from a ‘78 homicide on the podcast. 15 minutes later when my adrenaline subsided and I had to walk up the huge hill that is my driveway, it became clear that something in my knee had gone awry during my daring coyote escape. A week later the doctor confirmed, (after laughing hysterically at the how-it-happened segment of the appointment), thus leading to my horizontal position on the sofa when the Turk decided he was going to extract the beast in my fireplace. 

“I get him out now. He is so cute. We cannot let him die there.” 

“Come on, I might be cold-hearted but no one said anything about leaving the furball in there to die.”

The Turk was holding a towel as he went for the handle on the only thing separating my home from a soot-covered animal. 

“What’s your plan?”

“I just open and grab him.”

Visions of my family chasing a crazed rodent through three floors flashed before me. “Hell no fool. Have you seen that thing?” And that’s when the fluffy rodent took his cue and began jumping frantically in front of the fireplace door.

“What the hell he is doing?”

“If you took our ADHD 7 year-old, fed him lots of sugar and then turned him into a baby squirrel, that’s what is there.”

The Turk’s eyes bulged. “Whoa.” He threw Number 1 the towel. “You hold like net and catch him if he go crazy. I just open door a crack.

Number 1 rolled his eyes. “Baba, this is not a plan.”

“It is. I go fast and if I miss you catch him like a football.”

That’s when I couldn’t take any more. I had one working leg. I was in no shape to go squirrel hunting. I hobbled into the kitchen and returned to the scene with a jar of Jiff. “Here. Put this on a plate to distract him, then you can grab him and take him out.”

The Turk rolled his eyes. “That is stupid.”

“Actually Baba, that makes sense.” Number 1 went on to quote something he’d seen online about animal behavior to justify my plan and thankfully, eventually, convinced his insane father to give it a try. I wasn’t considering animal behavior. I was just going from a commonsense standpoint. If someone wanted to catch me, (aside from a coyote) I could be easily distracted by a little peanut-butter. Add chocolate to the peanut-butter and I’m yours.

Moments later, the Turk scooped up a peanut-butter covered furball and deposited him outside. Nugget followed behind with the remaining peanut-butter because he worried the little guy might still be hungry. “He can thare with hith thquirrel friends.”

Just another, typical weekend in our insane homestead. Thanks 2020!

Fair Thee…Oh Well

I’m not sure how your summer has been, but here in Massachusetts it’s been less than awesome. In addition to sharks, (which are still eating people, if case you wondered,) we’ve added jellyfish the size of Micronesia that look like massive blood clots. Pretty. We’ve taken the nation’s standard mosquitoes and elevated ours to deadly EEE mosquitoes. Oh yes, our mosquitoes cause your brain to swell and, quite often kill you. Of course, our ‘hood was the first to reach critical threat level and we’ve had a dusk to dawn curfew for weeks that will continue until the first frost. Awesome. Then of course there’s the whole Covid mess keeping us locked up. Thanks to the Covid, you can’t come visit us unless you’re from a handful of nearby states and we can’t come see you either. And for the cherry on the sundae, we’re in a rare drought that has killed off half of my garden against my best attempts and it’s been hot as balls in a place that isn’t supposed to be hot as balls. So, how’s summer you ask? Pretty typical for this year. 2020 Sucks.

One of the worst parts about this summer of 2020 is that there is basically nothing to do besides whine, complain and fight about opening schools. (I have literally run out of eye-rolls for this whole school topic. Ugh. Make it end.) Generally during this time of year, I enjoy forcing my family to accompany me to arts festivals, county fairs, and freak fests. I make them oooooooh and ahhhhhhh at paintings of sand dollars and smell candles made by stinky hippies. I adore exposing my sheltered husband, The Turk, to freakish American things like renaissance faires and carnivals. I’ve forced him to tour various state fairs as I painstakingly regale him with tales of my childhood as a competitive cattle showman and pie baker while we snarf down fried fat topped with sugar. This is my happiness. This is summer.

But thanks to 2020 that joy was dashed. No funnel cakes. No gargantuan pumpkins. No cow poop. No polygamist lion tamers in Renaissance attire. No joy. 2020 sucks. Instead, we’ve done as we have for the past six months and stayed home. Thankfully, our 3-foot deep pool provides me with enough room to paddle around on a noodle and sip spritzers, otherwise, I’d have done a Thelma and Louise ending months ago.

While many friends have been given respite by sending the kids to grandma’s, 2020 meant grandma couldn’t visit because she was from one of “those” states. The Turk remains hidden in his basement office and I knew if I didn’t want to visit the Betty Ford Clinic post Covid, I needed a plan.

“Boys, it’s fair time.  We’re going to do 4-H projects like we’re prepping for the county fair!” I announced only to be met with the larger than average looks of confusion.

“Whath a 4-H?” Nugget lisped.

As a kid back in Iowa there was literally nothing to do. (I remind my kids of this when they whine that the ocean is cold. “Suck it up kids, there’s no ocean in Iowa.”) So to keep us busy, my parents put us in 4-H the day we hit the 9 year-old eligibility date, meaning our summers were completely devoted to preparing projects and animals for the county fair. This also meant my mother got to farm me out to those who held skills she did not. (80’s parents were legendary at that.) I went to her girlfriend Karen for sewing, Grandma Pete for upholstery and refinishing, Dad for woodworking and my other Grandma for pies and bread baking. By the time I was a teenager, I could Martha Stewart with the best of them and had the purple ribbons and State Fair cred to show for it and my mother had peace and quiet.

“We’re going to refinish, reupholster, paint, sand and sew.” And while most 12 and 7 year-old boys would likely run at such a suggestion, Covid boredom has been rough on the youth of America and they jumped at the prospect.

We started by stripping down some old stools from the garage. Nugget stripped off the  cracked and crumbled pleather like he’d been stripping his whole life and his brother was handy with the staple remover. Though I was reluctant at first, Nugget convinced me to turn him loose with the electric sander.

“Tthththththththththeeeeeeeeeeeeeee  Mmmmmmoooooooooommmmmmmmm!” His whole body shook and his teeth chattered the entire time but he was a master. Number 1 was our design lead. He chose a nice navy paint for the legs and three contrasting fabrics for the seats because, “That’s who we are as a family Mom, a colorful mess.”

It took a few days of hard work and lots of staples but we are now dining on our posh creations. The Turk was probably the most impressed and even sent photos to his mother in Turkey. “I cannot believe you guys made these and I cannot believe I like them.” We definitely earned a purple ribbon.

Next we sewed floor pillows for the living room with Number 1 running the sewing machine and Nugget taking on the role of lead stuffer. Those were a solid blue ribbon with state fair advancement.

We had one round of zucchini bread with zucchini from our garden, (Before death by drought) and it was bad. It would’ve gotten a white ribbon for sure but we took a second shot and upgraded to a recipe from Auntie Martha Stewart and hit it out of the park.  Likewise, Number 1 mastered a chocolate cookie recipe to die for.

Currently, we’re sanding down an old coffee table for a lesson about stain and then we’re learning to make pasta. This plan has kept them busy, excited and hopefully laid the ground for some life skills. So while we might not get the ribbons in real-life, we’re earning them. The only problem with this plan is that I didn’t get to farm them out for a damn thing yet. Friends that make wine, where are you? I’ll send them your way.

Here’s the final products so far!

 

Our stools

Our floor pillows

SQUIRREL in the Hole!

I know, I know. You’re sitting at home, hopefully staying a responsible six feet from every fool that does not share your immediate DNA or a significant love connection, and you are dying to know about any updates with the squirrels on the Ozemet Compound. (oh, FYI – I’ve recently decided to changed the title from homestead to compound since it sounds more badass and since I really haven’t left since somewhere around March. I’m considering putting in some driveway spikes to keep out the maskless if this crap continues much longer. My compound, my rules.) I get it readers. My pain is your entertainment. So, you’re up on the news. You’ve binge watched all your brain can handle and now you absolutely must know…did the squirrels finally come to kill the Turk? Don’t worry. I’ve got updates.

To recap our spring, we were invaded by squirrels (Of course we were because, 2020.) My husband, The Turk, used some hard-earned Turkish Commando experience to battle the furry bastards. He finally managed to trap a wayward squirrel, or as I like to call them, fluffy-tailed-rats, in our above-garage mother-in-law suite. While he caught one, weeks later we found his friend in a rough state of decomposition. Though a squirrel crime scene was disgusting, this was finally the necessary prod The Turk needed to begin the much-needed renovation and give us some extra space.

The first step was to clean up the crime scene then seal off the area so not one, single fluffy-tailed-rat could penetrate the premises ever again. While this put our human minds at ease, it really pissed off the squirrels who’d taken up residence.  During the process, numerous fluffy-tailed rats stalked, threatened and vowed retribution. They peered in the windows and stood on branches outside our bedroom squeaking what could only be death threats at the Turk for stealing back our home.

However, after the snakes moved in, (again, read all about the annual snake invasion here) things started to simmer down, until last weekend. The Turk and I were upstairs folding laundy when a kid-scream pierced our peace.

“BABA!!!! BABA!!! There’s a squirrel in the living room!”

The Turk ran down the stairs with impressive agility for one in his mid-forties.  “Where he?”

Number 1 son pointed franticly to the fire place, thankfully enclosed in a steel and glass fireplace insert. “He just ran by!”

“I thaw him Baba. He wath thoooooo fat!” Nugget chimmed in.

It took a few moments but as the Turk and his mini-Turks peered at the glass door of the fireplace insert, two tiny paws and a rodent-esqe face suddenly appeared. The Turk screamed like a 13-year-old girl at a KPop concert before taking full inventory of the situation.

“What he is doing? How he get there?”

“I’d say he’s trying to watch Bob’s Burgers with us Baba.” My exact-replica son quipped.

The Turk shot him a nasty glare and the 12-year-old had the good sense to shut his pie hole.

“Don’t open that fireplace door Baba! He’th totally gonna get out and run all over our house.” Nugget added, never one to be left out.

By the time I arrived on the scene the Turk was shining a flashlight around and making squirrel noises.

“There isn’t really a squirrel in there is there?” I’m not sure why I possibly doubted this, (Because, 2020.)

“He is here but he not showing his face. Look.” He shined his flashlight onto the glass to reveal a multitude of fluffy-tailed-rat handprints reminiscent of a window adjacent to a toddler car-seat.

The next morning, following my coffee with Al Roaker, I flipped off the television and a small face appeared below it. Two rodent hands framed a fat, black face in the glass of our fireplace insert. “HONEY!!!! HE’S BACK!”

This time the Turk flew to my side. “What is dat?”

“I’m not sure. I think it’s a mouse.”

“It so fat. Maybe it is rat.”

“If there is a damn rat in my fireplace it’s done. I’m moving. There is no other way.” (Some things are non-negotiable in my existence.) Thankfully at that moment he turned and revealed a battered and balding, yet still identifiable, fluffy tail. “He’s one of them.”

“That is it. Now I set trap. Game on bastard.”

I must admit, I love it when the Turk goes all Midnight Express. At this same moment our  large and incredibly surly cat sauntered by and glared at our new resident who was still peering out from behind the glass. “Get him Cengiz! Get the intruder.” I’d assumed that a lifelong housecat had some internal kill switch that would kick in whenever he was presented with a rodent. Nope. Cengiz gave me a look that said, “I am not your pawn woman” before taking his usual spot in the sun where he proceeded to lick his missing testicles.

Hours later the little face disappeared, and he hasn’t been seen since. In response, both the Turk and I began our preventative measures. I scheduled a chimney cleaning that I’d been putting off since last fall. I plan to have my chimney sweep investigate the invasion and put an end to any more. Meanwhile, the Turk has planned out a Rube Goldberg-esque contraption that will fit perfectly within the fireplace insert with all the bells and whistles necessary to scare off the entire squirrel community. All we can do now is cross our fingers and hope my chimney sweep shows up first.

 

 

Hold Your Flute St. Patrick, I’ll Get Rid Of These Snakes

Readers, join me as I commemorate my third summer of survival here in the city by the bog. The learning curve has sometimes been steep but we non-New Englanders have made it through snakes, squirrels, chipmunks eating our cars, foxes crapping on our front step, 40 foot pines swaying in gale force winds, sharks, jellyfish, deer ticks and mosquitos carrying deadly cooties and other perils my mind has blocked for sanity. We’ve held our own and managed to come out on top…except when it comes to the damn snakes. I’ve shared many tales of woe starring one or more of those limbless bastards and yet, here is one more.

I have no love for snakes but as a former science teacher I was able to develop a professional tolerance.  However, the three men in my family are utterly traumatized by them, especially 6 year-old Nugget. A couple months ago Nugget was helping the Turk clean up some leaves behind the garage when they happened upon a nest of baby snakes. According to reports, Nugs caught a glimpse of one, six-inch baby murder machine and was paralyzed in fear. He shook. He screamed. He cried and then he fled. Since that incident in June, he will not enter any nature-filled area until I have done a thorough sweep for any snakes or even any sticks that might resemble a snake. As he says, “I’m juth not a fan of thothe damn thakes Mom.”

His father, the Turk, isn’t a fan either but he’s doing better. So far, he’s only run into the house screaming once this year which is way better than last year. He even felt so brave that last month when it was time for the annual sprinkling of the Snake-B-Gone (Seriously, it’s really a thing. It smells like Christmas morning and it works.) he took it upon himself to get the goods and secure the perimeter instead of waiting for his bad-ass wife to do the deed. Unfortunately, he made the newbie mistake of ordering Snake-Away (which smells like your grandma’s attic rather than Christmas morning). The scent of cinnamon and cloves drives snakes back to the bog better than St. Patrick and his flute, but the scent of moth balls makes them roll their little snakey eyes and chuckle as they take over your home.

Because the Turk has spent the last two summers commuting into Boston every day and I am not an epic snake-scardey wuss, reptile management has been my dept.  But thanks to the quarantine, he thought he’d take over this year and as husbands do, he assumed he knew the ins and outs of the job without consulting the expert…me.

Upon its arrival, he headed out to spread the first dose of Snake-Away that evening. As a former science teacher who sat though countless middle school “favorite animal” presentation, I know that snakes are most active during cooler parts of the day…like evening. But the Turk didn’t ask me. His evening time, cool weather dosing gave him an up-close interaction with a big mama snake in the backyard before he was sent into heart palpitations when the side-yard ferns began wiggling revealing a snakey love fest. By the time he found a recently shed snakeskin under one of the front bushes, the poor man was shattered. Noob. Breathlessly he rushed into the house, covered in sweat and fear.

“It will be ok now. I put out whole bucket. No snake will come.”

“Your lips to God’s ears honey. I don’t think you three wussies can handle any more snake sightings.”

24 hours later, Nugget and I were heading out to the car and a snake was waiting for us next to the driver’s side. Nugget freaked. “I will not go out there! No way! I’m thayin’ inside forever!”  I spent the next 2 days slinging 60 pounds of Nugget over my shoulder for every entrance and exit from the house.

On the third day when he’s almost forgotten about it, I made the mistake of dropping some top-shelf profanity when I nearly stepped on a pair of snakes on my way to the mailbox. “Thee Mom! The thankes are still here. I’m never leavin’ again!”

On the fourth day Nugget peered out the window to see one sunning himself on the lawn. “THANKE!!!!!!!!!!”

As we rushed to the window for confirmation, the Turk was pissed. “What is dis? Why they not leave? I use whole bucket of Snake-Away and they not go away!”

“That’s because you used Snake-Away. You need Snake-B-Gone.”

“You are crazy. There no difference.”

“No dear. Snakes like the smell of old ladies but not the smell of Christmas. Snake-Away is old lady.”

Number 1 son chimed in in a typical 12 year-old fashion. “You should kill it.”

I agreed. “My grandma used to hack off their heads with a hoe.”

“That is because your people are crazy.” The Turk retorted but then something dark sparkled in his eyes. “But yes. I can kill him. That will make them all run away because they scare.” He waved to Number 1, “Get me big rock.”

Within seconds the Turk and Number 1 were locked and loaded on the front step.

Shaking my head I muttered, “You better not miss.”

“I miss.” He confirmed. “Probably good. You know in Turkey if you kill snake his wife take revenge.”

“Hubba whaa?” Even after all these years my husband still drops these little jems of Turkish madness that send me spinning.  “So if you kill a Turkish snake his little snakey wife will come and get you?”

“Yes. Maybe I should not kill.”

Fortunately, Nugget had a doctor’s appointment offering me a hasty retreat from the madness.   I slung Nugget over my shoulder and left the other two to battle the 12” garter snake currently holding them hostage. Minutes into the appointment my phone chimed with a text.

“We have big problem. I am right.”

“About what?”

“I Google it. If you kill snake, his wife take revenge. Maybe I did not miss him. Maybe I kill him. She can come for me.”

There are no emojis to accurately represent my wide-eyed horror at watching my husband’s descent into madness, so I texted back the only thing I felt to be appropriate. “Ok.”

When Nugget and I arrived home an hour later, the snake was where we left him. I’m pretty sure when I approached to make sure he was alive, his rearing up was accompanied by him flashing two little snakey middle-fingers as he chuckled in my face.

That afternoon I explained to my husband the nuances of snake management, complete with a new bucket of Snake-B-Gone. A little mid-afternoon sprinkle of the cinnamoney goodness and poof – I haven’t had a snake flip the bird since, though I remain on high alert with my Snake-B-Gone at the ready.