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.

Upstream Nugget

I’ve developed a new obsession with one of Mother Nature’s insane inventions. This has happened a lot this year. The boys and I have spent hours on the Cape watching jellyfish (or as I call them, floating danger loogies). I continue to remain fascinated by all things cranberry bog.  And of course, I have that disturbing love/hate relationship with Debby the Horny Turkey and her posse living in my woods. (ICYMI here’s Debby’s tale) But now that it is herring run time, I have a brand new obsession. 

River herring are a blueish-silver fish, about 12” long that spawn in late spring. Here’s the kicker, they have to leave the ocean, head to a stream, swim all the way upstream, and often up fish ladders, to return to their place of birth to spawn. Yes, they have to roll back up in their hood o’ origin to procreate, because Mother Nature said so. Impressive, since I can’t even handle taking a flight with more than one connection to get back to my hood o’ origin south of Des Moines.

People flock to a small stream next to Plymouth Rock to catch the herring action and of course, my badass homeschool self decided this year we should too. I had no idea what to expect because all I knew of herring was that it came pickled in a jar and smelled like ass. But after about 9 months of this homeschool jam, I’ve found that anything can become a field trip, especially watching fish swim upstream. So we bundled up, because yes, even in May we’re still wearing hoodies and pants in New England, and set sail for Plymouth Rock. (Ok, we didn’t sail and it’s only a 10-minute drive but when in Rome…) 

As we headed up the path next to the stream there was little to no action with the exception of Steve. That’s what Nugget named the lone silver devil floating belly-up at the start of the stream. “Gueth Theeve didn’t make the trip.” 

“Mom, if you brought us here to see a dead fish, I’m out.” Number 1 added. He’s rapidly morphing from my darling boy into a surly teen and I am not a fan.

“Have faith in the fish, buttheads.” 

By the time we reached the halfway point, the magic was happening and within a few more yards the entire stream, about 15 foot in width, was jammed full of herring, all swimming their little fins off and seemingly not moving an inch. The speed of the stream was intense and those fools just kept going. No one gave up. No one retreated. They just kept swimming against the current, determined to make it upstream. Once they actually made it through this rough section of stream they would face a massive ladder that each fish would have to fling itself up, step by step, in order to get past the grist mill blocking their way. The ladder would lead them to a quick respite in a pond before they took off on the next leg of their journey.  We were catching these guys not even a ½ mile out of the ocean, and at the very beginning of their journey. I was exhausted just watching them much like that time I peeked in on a spinning class.

The odds of survival and various facts were posted around the site and it was discouraging. It’s probably a good thing river herring aren’t avid readers. Their chances of success were slim and the odds of their kids making back to the ocean were even slimmer. There would be a lot more Steves along the way. But I couldn’t help but feel hopeful. I wanted to whip out some pompoms to cheer those little fishies on and give them some high-fins for effort. I couldn’t put my finger on why, but I felt connected to these herrings, deeply.

It wasn’t until later I realized why I felt so connected. (I mean, besides the fact that I’m a Pisces – obvi.)  Those fish, giving their all and believing in their souls that they were going to make it, were just like my Nugget. From the day that kid was born he has been swimming upstream. He was born with Brachio-Oto-Renal syndrome, a genetic syndrome that occurs one in 50,000. It came with one ear, a bum kidney, hearing loss, ADHD and a whole host of things that continue to pop up as he ages. He had more surgeries and procedures before the age of 7 than his father and I have had in our entire lives. People underestimate him at every turn but that sassy little Nug just keeps swimming with full-force.

Recently he had a major set-back when we realized his football coach was assuming that he was severely disabled because he can’t hear. The coach was treating him like a token charity chase by allowing him 2-3 plays per game and making a huge deal out of it and patting himself on the back. I was furious. Nugget was devastated. He’s played football for three years and this was the first time anyone assumed he wasn’t capable because of his hearing. 

Back at home, he packed up every piece of football gear he had and asked me to throw it away. I wanted to beat the crap out of that coach. He might be 6’5” and 300 to my 5’4” and none-yo-business, but a pissed off mama can take down Godzilla if it’s to defend her baby. But a couple days later Nugget informed me, “I’m quitting that team. They don’t deserve me. I might play next year with a better team or I might take up hockey instead.” And that was that. He was back in the water, swimming upstream, determined to get where he wanted to go reguarless of obstacles in his path.

I will always be sad that Nugget has to swim upstream, but I’m also in awe of my little herring. Just like those crazy fish, he defies the odds and keeps on swimming. He’s perfectly situated for world domination though. Some day when you’re taking orders from a one-eared, hyperactive nutjob with an epic lisp and potty-mouth, don’t say you weren’t warned. Nugget will be one of those herrings that get where they’re headed and I’ll always be there with my pompoms.

My Home Is a Love Den For Turkeys And I Am Displeased

Lookin’ For Love in All the Wrong Places…

Here’s a quick recap for those that may need it: 

Three years ago, this crazy broad and her family bought a house in the woods of New England, but we were woefully unprepared for the vast amount of nature that comes with a house in the woods. We’ve spent the past three years fending off attacks by nature from vicious beasts like snakes, turtles, frogs, squirrels and chipmunks. We have not always prevailed. And now, amid a global pandemic and world-wide mayhem we add to this another enemy, the wild turkey. Readers, as if hunting squirrels in our garage apartment and driving the snakes back to the bogs were not enough, now we’ve got a freakin’ turkey problem and her name is Debby, the horny turkey. 

            A couple weeks ago as I was upstairs making the beds, I heard a god-awful gurgling coming from the front yard. It sounded like a geriatric neighbor practicing Mongolian throat singing. Since I have no geriatric Mongolian neighbors, I sought answers and immediately found them. A big ass tom turkey was struttin’ through our property, tailfeathers flared, wailing and lookin’ for love. 

            While I’m not wooed by the sound of gurgling, apparently the hens of New England are because within moments a crew of female turkeys came crusin’ up my driveway like they pay the mortgage here. Debby, (the largest and hoochiest) led the crew. Debby gargled back at Tom Selleck (as Nugget has named him) and they all headed into the ravine for a little lovin’. At least that’s what I assumed. Not wanting to be a turkey voyeur, I pulled the blinds and left them to what I assumed was the business of procreation. 

            Fast forward to the other day when Nugget and I were deep into some double digit, second grade subtraction and once again a gurgling Mongolian throat singer seemed to be in my yard. My incredibly ADHD child threw down his pencil. “What the hell is that?”

            “I don’t know probably a sick bird. Just keep working.”

            “How am I thupposed to work like thith Mom?” (For those of you following along, it’s been a year without in-person speech therapy, and I’ll let you guess how that lisp of his ith.”)

His attention was shot so we slipped on our jackets and slid outside. 

It took one bar of the gurgling-tune to identify him. “Tom Selleck is back.” I said.

            “Yeth he ith.”

Seconds later Tom’s gurgling was joined by a similar gurgle from Debby. Debby was with the same four hoochies who’d been rollin’ in the ravine with Tom the week prior. We spotted them in the woods on the other side of our driveway, a little too close to the house. Maybe they needed a change of scenery. Maybe turkey mating requires multiple venues. Not sure and not interested in knowing more about turkey love so I crept across the driveway towards the woods and yelled. “Debby! I know what you’re doing in there! Find a new love den!”

            I don’t know if they left but it did quiet them down. My neighbors, however, likely think I have lost my damn mind. It was worth it though because Nugget gave me a whole three minutes of math afterwards. (A record for my little spaz.)

            After these episodes I decided to do some research because knowledge is power. I turned to my good friend Google and learned that April is prime mating season for wild turkeys in the Northeast. The males fight it out to see who gets the property rights, (Clearly Tom Selleck was the victor of our yard.) then the winner pushes out his plume and struts to draw the girls his way. Within the pack of hens there is a hierarchy – as in Debby is the leader of the gang and she is not about to let any Tiffany or Lacey step up on her man without a full on smackdown. Turkey love is literally like an episode of Jerry Springer. And where does Debby head to once she’s knocked up with Tom Selleck’s love spawn? A nice thicket with fallen trees on an overlook…like the ones right beside our house. Debby will repeatedly hook up with Tom Selleck until their love is secured with 9-12 eggs. For the love of god Debby! 9 to 12????? (Maybe we should rename her Debby Duggar) Then Debby sets up camp atop her eggs for the next 26-28 days.

            Debby still hasn’t hit the magic number yet though. How do I know? Today, as I was putting away the homeschool bin, I leaned into my bay window and what should I see on my front step? DEBBY! That crazy hen was scanning my yard looking for Tom Selleck! I thought there was a toddler on my step at first glance. Debbie is that big. She is Amazonian by turkey standards at well over 3 feet tall. Plus, girlfriend has some egg-laying hips. She’s the alpha hoochie for a reason. 

            My boys had just gone outside for a break when they saw her too. I screamed. They screamed. Debby screamed. I yelled through the window. “Debby! Get your ass out of here! Get off my step!” but Debby ignored me. I went to the door to shoo her off and the boys freaked. 

            “No MOM! Debby can kill you!” Number 1 screamed. “I saw it on the internet!”

            “Theth a bitch!” Nugget added. (I swear, we really are working on his potty mouth.) “I’m gonna have a turkey thandwicth for lunch juth to be mean. Take that Debbie!”

            I flung the door open hoping to catch her off guard. “Debby get your whorin’ ass off my front step! Get out! Go!” She rolled her little turkey eyes, gobbled at me and eventually relented as I shooed her back into the ravine. But she’ll be back. You can’t get rid of a horny turkey that easily…or so I read.

            When the Turk came back to the house from his above-garage office for lunch, we told him the whole Debby tale to which he asked, “Did she knock on door?”

“What?”

He stifled a laugh, “Maybe Debby get confused and was look for me. She thought they say go find handsome Turk, not go find handsome turkey.” 

            Ugh. Dad jokes.

Tonight, I’m putting some turkey burgers on the grill…just to make sure Debby knows who the real alpha hen is ‘round these woods. Watch yo-self Debby.

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!!!!!!

Of Chipped Teeth and Chicken Bones…

“Be honest, is it bad?” I gingerly grinned at the Turk, exposing my front tooth.

He bent down, tilted his head left and right. “It is not that bad. I mean, it is not good but I think no one notice if you don’t tell.”

I ducked into the 1^st floor powder room, the one with the fabulous purple walls and paintings of cats in trucker hats, and immediately began practicing my new closed-mouth smile. I looked like I was seven years-old but it was either this new no-teeth-revealed grin or the possibility of death. Pandemic choices suck.

The route I’d taken to this moment was nothing short of a tour in stupidity led by no one but me. For the majority of my life I’ve danced over the line between vegetarian and mild omnivore on the reg. I’ll be a solid veg-head for years until one day mama needs meat. The problem is, when I come off the veg wagon, I go hard and scarf down meat like a T-Rex on a bender. No surprise, 2020 pushed me over the edge and suddenly, Mama’s raging on a meat bender. 

So, when my darling son left his plate of chicken wings unattended last Friday, Mama-Rex couldn’t help but snag one. But honestly, who can say no the hot, juicy, greasy joy of a Buffalo wing? Not this chunky gal, that’s for sure. As I shoved that wing into my salivating mouth and bit down I was ready for the burst of sweet, spicy pleasure to take over. (Is this why people do drugs? Oh lord, am I a buffalo wing junkie?) But instead of joy my body immediately filled with horror. I felt the crack. Then the chip. Then that terrifying feeling that you’ve just bit down on a rock. I rushed to my purple powder room to inspect the damage only to find a solid chip out of my front tooth. My fat ass chipped a damn tooth trying to steal a chicken wing. The irony was not lost on me at all.

Thoughts of Mama Cass flooded my psyche. (If you don’t know Mama Cass you’re a child. Goog her. She’s a legend.) Perhaps it’s an urban legend that she died choking on a chicken bone but my maternal grandmother Dink always warned, “be careful eating that chicken, you don’t want to end up like Mama Cass.”  Ok, so Mama Cass ended up dead and I only had a chipped chomper but I felt connected to that woman 100%.

“What am I going to do?” I whined to the Turk moments after the incident.

“I guess you have to go to dentist.”

“Obvi, but what about the ‘Rona?” 

“I guess we trust they take care.” He was very unconvincing. Partially because he isn’t really a fan our dentist and partially because he was standing on a ladder in the bathroom trying to rewire the exhaust fan simultaneously. My chipped tooth was of little interest to him. Thankfully his electrical work prevented him from asking for a blow by blow of the incident. I had no need to confess to my husband how I had really committed this atrocity.

Hesitant, I left an after-hours message with the dentist and prepared myself for a Monday appointment. But by Sunday I wasn’t feeling it. Was it chipped? Yes. Did it look bad? Oh, hells yeah. But I’d had a root canal on the same tooth years ago after taking a Thomas the Tank Engine to the front tooth by a post-surgical Nugget so there was no health danger. Was I ready to sit in an office, mouth open, sucking in germs during a pandemic with an airborne virus just to get it fixed? Maybe not. Perhaps I would just never open my mouth again. Practical right? At least I might finally lose that quarantine fifteen.

Sunday night I had fitful sleep. In my dreams Steve Martin was reprising his role of the sadistic dentist from Little Shop of Horrors above me while Covid germs permeated the air and catapulted themselves into my gaping mouth. I’d wake from one nightmare, walk around to brush it off, then return to pick up with another. I died at least three times that night and was near death more than I could count. By the time I woke up, I was convinced that this chipped tooth was going to be my death sentence. Was I really prepared to leave my beautiful babies to suffer through a future with The Turk? He can barely get them dinner when I leave it in the Crock-Pot.

As we sipped our coffee, I dropped the bomb. “I can’t go. If I go to the dentist I will die.”

“I agree.” He took a long sip from his little Yoda mug. That’s the thing about marriage, while being opposites is great, it’s always good to have a spouse that shares your same level of crazy.  

He put Yoda back on the counter, “I think it ok you can wait. We are red zone. It is very dangerous to go now. Plus, you see nobody but us and if you go out, you wear mask. No one can see.”

My Turk made a very good point. This whole mask thing could be my vanity’s savior. While maskholes argue about fabric face coverings impeding their personal freedoms, I’ve always been all in because: 1: I believe in science. 2. I believe in protecting society and 3. Most importantly, those masks hide a double chin like nobody’s business, and I will take that all day long. Now, as an added bonus that mask is going to hide my snaggle tooth until this virus subsides enough for me to get to the dentist. 

After some practice in the purple powder room mirror, I’ve resigned myself to my new look. I’m sure it would be considered nothing in some places (I’m lookin’ at you Kentucky, ) just know that the minute we are no longer in a danger zone, my ass is in that dentist chair.

2020, the year that just keeps giving.

Homeschooling in Oz

We are almost two months into this homeschool madness and I am happy to say that not only has my wine consumption leveled out, but my kids have actually learned a few things. I know, right? I’m as surprised as you are on both counts! To be honest, unlike many parents who made this same choice to homeschool this year, I wasn’t jumping in blind to this whole education thing. In my 20 plus years I’ve taught some of society’s biggest asshats but I knew that even on my cherubs’ worst days, homeschooling them would not be that bad. Afterall, I taught English to entitled middle schoolers in a private school run by the Turkish mafia while nine months pregnant. I could certainly handle my two half-breed Turks.

Being the gal I am, I spent the month leading up to this adventure reading up on every style of homeschooling out there, from recreating school at home with a formal curriculum to the ultra-hippie unschooling (which is basically a damn free-for-all), before deciding on a spot in the middle. We’re taking an experiential, thematic, hands-on, cross-curricular, project-based educational approach here at Oz Academy. Oz Academy is the name I gave my little project not just because it’s a play on our last name, but because I can be either Glinda the Good Witch or Evillene the Wicked Witch at the drop of the hat. I like flexibility. 

So far, I’ve learned a lot through this whole experience. Like, I’ve learned that though I tried my best to make genetic odds work in my favor by mating with a math wiz, my kids did not get those genes. Conversely, I’ve learned that helping those students through that remedial 7^th grade math class last year was the most beneficial thing that ever happened in my teaching career. I’ve learned that spelling and English are boring, but they can be fun if you combine them with cool stuff like science and monster myths. I’ve learned that my Nugget isn’t possibly ADHD (as reported by past teachers) but rather he’s – hot freakin’ mess akin to a squirrel on a sugar high -level ADHD. I’ve learned my 7^th grader is a major slacker if left unattended and that my 2^nd grader didn’t really learn what he should’ve in 1^st grade. Most of all, I’ve learned that I am a big fan of not getting up at 4:30 in the morning to get to school by 7:00 and I much prefer a school day that starts at 9:00.

While there is a ton of work and I’m always tired from this process, I’m can’t imagine doing homeschool in a better geographical location. We’ve got the Mayflower and Wampanoags, Salem and Plymouth, the ocean and the bogs and so much more just minutes away. 

We’ve spent so much time on Cape Cod, we’re like the cousins the Kennedy’s don’t want to claim.

We’ve slogged through enough cranberry bogs to make our own Oceanspray commercial. (The boys are cran-grape dudes but I’m a purist)

We’ve caught snails and hermit crabs, dissected lobsters and used the leftovers for lobster rolls.

We’ve observed tides on the ocean side, then rushed across the Cape to compare the same tide on the bay side.

We’ve built Day of the Dead altars and the boys got to know about their grandfathers on both sides.

We’ve painted, drawn, sewn and sculpted.

We’ve mastered enough Turkish to get into trouble. (Nugget embraced the word ufak – pronounced like ooooo-f-u-c-k. It means small in Turkish but to Nugget it has many uses, none of them being small.)

We’ve biked miles and miles and kept Mom limping along.

We’ve made new homeschool friends and kept in touch with our homies.

We’ve read books about the Jersey Devil and compared the Boris Karloff Frankenstein with Mel Brooks’ version. 

We’ve become addicted to both the Munsters and the Adams Family.

We’ve fought over math and when it comes to pre-algebra, f-bombs have been dropped.

We’ve had to backtrack and re-teach, jump ahead and repeat.

We’ve cut days short when frustration was too much.

We’ve worked longer than expected and finished sooner than planned.

And we’ve had way more ups than downs. Ultimately, as the Covid rages again and politics crumble one thing has become clear. This decision to check out of society and take this less-than-standard approach to work and school was not an easy one but here in our little corner of the world one thing has been abundantly clear, we are exactly where we need to be in this moment and this mom is going to soak up every minute of it. (Even stinky farts when we’re snuggled in watching Morticia and Gomez.)

Perhaps the truth really came last week when the Turk eavesdropped as Nugget, my long-time special ed kid, was reading to me. That evening during cocktail hour the Turk said, “Honey, what happen to him? He can read. I hear him. He can read so good now.”

“I know right? He’s really taken off.” I beamed.

“I think maybe you know how to do this.”

*insert resting bitch face* “Ya think?”

Like I said, we’re right where we need to be.

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!