Month: November 2023

It has been 20 years since I drove carpool. I’m covering this week for our youngest daughter who has been sick.

A neighbor is dropping off and I’m “picking-up,” as they say.

Our daughter texted detailed instructions. She can’t quit texting detailed instructions.

Round 1: “The signs say earliest pick up time is 2:35 but you have to arrive at 2:20 to check in anywhere near that time. They have the first entrance closed. You take the second entrance and wrap around a bit.”

Waze and Google Maps never use “wrap around a bit,” but I’ll figure it out.

The instructions continued, “Just join in the line and you’ll be fine. When you pull up closer to the elementary building, a lady will be there with an iPad. Print out this card with all the kids’ names and codes and hold it up or roll down your window and show the photo from your phone.”

She continues, “You stay in line, park and someone will open the door and the kids will get in. Stay in the vehicle.”

Like I would get out and let a second- or third-grade kid get in the driver’s seat.

Round 2: “Once you have the kids, pull into the left lane and wrap around the school. You will then go into the middle lane once you turn the corner. Stay to the left as you wrap around the first building. Other cars are getting in line and staying to pick up middle schoolers. Don’t get in that line to the right.”

Round 3: “Just ask the girls if you are confused. Call out one child by name or all four kids will yell at you at once.”

I am now drawing a diagram, rehearsing lane changes in my mind and have a racing heartbeat.

A few minutes later comes Round 4: “Don’t yell at the kids.”

“Why would I yell at the kids?”

“Because they are wound tight after school.”

I’m leaving for pick up when another text says she was just notified that her oldest went to the school clinic feeling nauseous. She rested a while, had no fever and returned to class.

Pick up goes without a hitch. Kids pile into the car. We wrap around the elementary school, change lanes, wrap the middle school, don’t change lanes, pass the high school, merge into a single lane and exit the campus.

“How am I doing?” I ask.

The entire car explodes shouting, “DON’T FOLLOW THE BLUE CAR! DON’T FOLLOW THE BLUE CAR! FOLLOW THE RED CAR! FOLLOW THE RED CAR!

We merge onto the interstate with six lanes of traffic where every other vehicle is a huge semi.

Somebody coughs.

You know what often follows a child’s cough, right? Vomit. Vomit that covers the child, the car, and places you can’t see in the car so that it reeks for months.

“Who coughed?”

“NOBODY!” they yell.

Then they all start coughing. COUGH! COUGH! COUGH! HACK! HACK! HACK!! Germs fill the vehicle like buckshot, some ricochet off the windows, some ping the rearview mirror and others remain aloft in the air.

“NOT FUNNY!” I yell.

More coughing.

I blast the AC pointing all the vents toward the back. Yes, it is selfish, but none of them can drive and we have 15 minutes to go.

I am dripping sweat by the time I drop them off at their respective homes.

Both mothers thank me profusely for doing pick up.

“Piece of cake,” I say.

And then I went home and ate some.

Following is an account of the First Thanksgiving as recorded by a very punny Pilgrim writer:

It was early morning of the great feast. Pilgrim women had been busy in the main cabin before sunrise, dashing about, peeling potatoes, turnips and apples and monitoring food in the fireplace, when one was heard to say, “Hard to be-leaf it’s already Thanksgiving.”

A cackle of laughter ensued, greatly encouraging other pun meisters.

“Pumpkin sure smells good in here!”

Being that one good pun deserves another, a woman holding a handful of turkey feathers said, “We’re plucky to assemble a feast so fine this year.”

“Poultry in motion,” sang out another.

“But can we pull it off?” cried a weary soul.

“Yes, we pecan!” came a resounding chorus.

“Is anyone keeping thyme?” asked another.

“We’ve got this, ladies—we’re going to give them pumpkin to talk about!”

Yes, they were the sort of women who bake the world a better place. They were strong, stalwart and not ones to take the path of yeast resistance.

After hours and hours of preparation, last but not feast, the women paraded the dishes to the tables.

“Y’all bready for this?”

There came an array of fruits, vegetables, hot dishes, cold dishes, fish, venison, and wild game. It was, quite simply, a gourd-geous spread.

The guests oohed and aahed. “You aint seen stuffin’ yet!” cried a robust Pilgrim woman.

The tables creaked under the weight of the bounty. Governor William Bradford announced there would be no fowl talk or getting sauced and said a blessing, and the feasting commenced.

It quickly became obvious that the candied sweet potatoes were going untouched. This was not unexpected – silence of the yams.

“Anymore rolls?” inquired one of the guests.

“You butter believe it.”

An altercation broke out between two Pilgrim families at the end of the table. “Squash the family drama!” Bradford yelled.

Family members didn’t always see pie-to-pie, but they did love a feast.

Meanwhile, at the edge of the forest, a young pilgrim boy whispered into a pilgrim girl’s ear, “Stuffin’ compares to you.”

To which she responded, “I’ve had a crust on you.”

Back at the table, hosts made the rounds with a decanter asking, “Wine not have another glass?”

It was eat, drink and cranberry.

Then it was time for dessert: Do or pie.

A chief took a serving of pumpkin, pecan and apple, nodded his thanks and said, “Piece out.”

Three days later, the feast was finally over. Leftovers were wrapped and sent home with the guests and plates and gobble-lets were washed, dried and put away.

The pilgrims all joined hands, said a prayer of thanks, raised their arms to the sky and shouted, “Whip, whip, hooray! Corn in the USA!”

My number of new friends has exploded in recent weeks. All of a sudden I’m incredibly popular. It’s staggering.

Letters fill the mailbox every afternoon, texts ding on my phone and, oh, the emails. My inbox overfloweth.

“I need you!” a new friend says.

“I want you!” another new friend says.

“I’m married!” I say.

All this fawning is embarrassing.

“I can’t do this without you.”

Do what? We’ve never met! Who are you? Did our kids go to school together? Did you live in the neighborhood 20 years ago?

The pleading continues, “I’m counting on you.”

My new friends often ask for money. It seems like an odd way to connect.

Today I had an email from a new friend asking for one dollar. I wonder where my new friend lives that a dollar is worth anything. Asking for one dollar makes absolutely no financial sense. What is this guy? A congressman?

Then there is the request that says, “I don’t need your money! I just need your signature.”

Obviously, the sender has never seen my handwriting. My own mother told me to never write to her in cursive.

Who are these people?

The last time I had a huge uptick like this in new friends was back in the fall of 2020. It was nice to feel needed. All the concern and care were overwhelming. Yes, they all did want money. We were “working together, forging a future, building partnership.”

Then the election was over, and my would-be partners went silent. My friends never wrote, never texted, never called. To think we’d been so close; then just like that, I was tossed aside.

I felt so used.

Just now an email arrived saying, “Lori, Ohio is in trouble!”

I haven’t been to Ohio in two years! Don’t blame Ohio’s trouble on me.

Unfortunately, a few of my new best friends are high pressure and I don’t appreciate it: “You have until midnight.” Or what? My car turns into a pumpkin? I lose a glass slipper?

Yesterday, and this is the truth, I had 29 emails from new best friends between 9 a.m. and noon. My new best friends are very needy.

The most bizarre message was virtually pleading: “I’m asking you to . . . ACT.”

I don’t act. I don’t sing either.

But I do make good lasagna. And I excel at unsubscribing.

 

 

I’m on the fence about using a guest towel in someone else’s home.

I only mention this because my sister-in-law, one of our daughters, and several close friends routinely keep paper guest towels in their bathrooms.

It’s an identity crisis of sorts. I see the pretty paper guest towels and ask myself, “Am I a guest or am I family?”

Is family ever a guest, and is a guest ever like family?

If my good friend notices a used pretty paper guest towel in the bathroom trash, will she think we’re not close friends after all?

There I stand, water running down my arms, soaking my sleeves, pondering how to dry.

To towel or not to towel, that is the question.

Tell you what is out of the question – those air dryers in public restrooms that sound like jet engines on takeoff. They’re so deafening that nobody stays until their hands are dry.

Yes, I do know there’s a war going on, but sometimes pondering banal matters of life can extend your sanity for a few more minutes.

The whole guest towel dilemma is complicated by the pretty factor. I like looking at the pretty paper guest towels; I’m just not sure I should use them.

Why use something so lovely when you can just shake your hands over the sink (sorry about splattering the mirror) then pat them dry them on your pants? Hand towels, pants towels. I’ve learned a lot from all these grandkids.

Years ago, I bought some pretty holiday guest towels that were on clearance.  They featured a pretty little snow scene with reindeer and a sleigh. Year after year, I put them out and nobody touched them. Each year I inched them closer and closer to the sink in case the message wasn’t clear.

The grew so old the edges were curling, so I snatched one up and used it for cleaning.  Santa was working double duty– delivering presents and doing windows.

My mother kept guest towels in the bathroom. She didn’t grow up fancy, and we didn’t grow up fancy, it was just a touch of loveliness. The pretty paper towels sat in a little metal holder and, of course, whenever we went for a stay, the kids raced to the bathroom to wash their hands.

“Don’t touch those – they’re for Grandma’s guests!”

“We’re Grandma’s guests!”

“No, you’re not guests! You’re family!”

I bought some pretty guest towels this fall. Fall leaves, acorns, you get the picture.

I was about to wash my hands in the bathroom that all our grands use. I looked at my paper guest towels, then at the cotton hand towel hanging all bunched up, dripping water, smeared with dirt and grime and who knows what else.

I was suddenly feeling like a guest in my own home.