Off to The Mall…I Better Bring My Ear Plugs

I need to return a pair of jeans for my 14-year old daughter Melissa, who refused to try them on when we were in the actual store and insisted on buying them and bringing them home.

“It’s no big deal mom,” she reasoned. “If they don’t fit we’ll just return them.”

No big deal for her maybe, she’s not the one who has to make another trip during her precious and limited work lunch hour to the “Land of Wonder for Teenage Girls”. Or, as the old folks call it, “The Mall”.

I set foot inside “The Land of Wonder” and search the directory for a particular business establishment we’ll refer to as the “We’re Going to Encourage Teenage Girls to Use all of Their Senses in Their Decision to Purchase our Clothing” store.

Well, that is quite a long name. Let’s give it another alias. Hey, I know, how about: “The Store”. Yes, that has a nice ring to it.

The directory reveals a long list of shops dedicated to selling skimpy, tiny, small, and revealing shirts and jeans for their eager target market, namely, skimpy, tiny, small, and revealing teenage girls. I find “The Store” on the directory, but soon realize that the map really isn’t necessary, for I can smell “The Store” from three football fields away. My nose is greeted with a nauseating mix of perfume and suntan lotion which grows stronger the closer I get, while my ears are greeted with the “soothing” sounds of hip hop loud enough to please teenagers in "The Store", the mall, across the street, in the next state, throughout the country, in China, Australia, etc…

Outside “The Store”, two soft, cozy armchairs beckon potential shoppers to sit and relax, take in the nauseating fragrance, and listen to the “soothing” hip hop music.

I walk into “The Store” and I am immediately greeted by a salesgirl who looks like a recent kindergarten graduate.

“Hi, we __ hav__ a _sale if you buy __ you __ one __for half _ _ per __.”

 “CAN YOU REPEAT THAT!” I shout over the din of the hip hop tunes.

 “You can get ___ off __ of shirts and __ yes __thank __ so __need ___ help__ percent__ tomorrow__ok?”

 “WHAT?”

 “We are hav__ a __new __yes__today__jeans___tomor___ right? ___help ___see___ok?”

 I give up.

I make my way to the register where the 12 year old manager is waiting on another aggravated looking mom and her excited teen. When it is my turn, I shout, “I NEED TO RETURN THESE JEANS!”

“Would _ like ___ put____store____American____credit___you?”

 “CAN YOU REPEAT THAT PLEASE?”

 “Will this___be___your___express____store____thank__?”

By using an unknown ability to lip read, I manage to discern that he is asking if I want to put the refund on my credit card or if I want store credit.

Hmmmm.

Credit card = money for me

Store credit = clothes for Melissa

I choose me.

As he is pushing the beeping buttons on the register, I am overcome by a sudden desire to speak my mind.

 “YOU KNOW, I UNDERSTAND THAT YOU WANT TO PLAY LOUD MUSIC BECAUSE YOU ARE TRYING TO APPEAL TO YOUR TARGET MARKET, BUT DID YOU KNOW THAT THE PEOPLE WHO PAY FOR THESE CLOTHES ARE THE MOTHERS OF YOUR TARGET MARKET,” I explain, drawing on my years of marketing experience. “AND WE DON’T LIKE THE LOUD MUSIC!”

My mini-tirade is met with a blank stare.

 Sigh.

 He hands me back my credit card and I hustle out of the store, barely noticing that the kindergartener is saying, “Thank_ come__ two__ percent ___ see___ sale___tomorrow___ notice___you___bye.”

I rush back through the mall, longing to go into that bastion of fun for old fuddy duddy dames like me, “The Department Store”. But alas, my journey into “The Store” has taken all of my time. I must get back to work. Shopping for professional garb would have to wait.

Later that evening, Melissa grills me.

“Did you return my jeans?”

“Yes, I did,” I reply.

“Oh, thanks mom.” Pause. Pause. “Y’know, I still need to get new jeans. Can we go back to the mall on Saturday?”

“Only if you let me take some time to shop for shoes,” I demand.

She rolls her eyes and begrudgingly agrees.

Great.

Another trip to “The Store”.

I’d better get my ear plugs now.

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There's Still Stories to Tell

When my mom and dad met on that fateful blind date nearly 51 years ago, they soon discovered a common bond, both were only children.   That is why, growing up, I watched with envy as my friends bragged about family gatherings with a myriad of aunts, uncles, and first cousins.  For I had none.

I often wondered why both sets of grandparents stopped at just one.  On my mother's side, the answer came in the form of my grandmother's unfortunate hysterectomy following a miscarriage.  On my father's side, well, I'll never know.

Holiday dinners featured a dining room table where my grandparents, great-aunts and uncles broke bread.  My paternal grandfather's younger sister, my great-aunt Elaine, a professional dancer, also taught her craft to ballarinas in training.   His older sister, my great-aunt Lynn, a feminist even before the term was coined, had a professional career in non-profit management, and served in the army.  

On rare occassions, we were joined by my maternal grandfather's sister, my great-aunt Rosie and her husband Sidney.  Natives of Harrisburg, PA, he owned a grocery store while she worked as a buyer for a department store and dabbled in antiques on the side.

All had their eccentricities, making close relationships challenging, although I wish I had tried harder.  For so many stories never shared, so much family history never recorded....and now it is too late.

Over the past two decades, Lynn succumbed to Alzheimer's disease, while Elaine's heart finally gave out.  The only one still with us is Rosie, but unfortunately, she has not been "with us" for a generation, when an enstrangement that can trace its roots to something stupid tore a rift in our family.  That is why it came as such a shock when my mother received a phone call from a woman in Harrisburg, informing her that aunt Rosie, now 90, had recently moved into a nursing home.

The call brought out an extreme of emotions in my mother.   Should she make the two hour drive to Harrisburg and risk a less than warm reception?   Memories of their last unpleasant encounter hung in the balance, preventing rationale thought, and keeping logic at bay.  Finally, after talking to my sister Bev and me, she planned her "operation reunion" strategy.   I pulled out a family photo taken during my 14-year old daughter Melissa's Bat Mitzvah last year, when we were all dressed to the nines!  My mom placed the photo and a brief but cheerful handwritten letter into an envelope, firmly secured the stamp, placed the letter in the box......and waited.

A week later, my mom called me, brimming with excitement.  Seems Rosie had been overjoyed at the unexpected correspondence.  She sent a letter in reply, congratulating my mother for all she had achieved, and rejoicing with pride over our beautiful family.  Yes, she had missed my sister's wedding, my wedding, and my brother's wedding.  She had missed the birth of my daughter, nephew and niece.  She had missed birthday parties and holiday dinners and countless moments in their young lives. 

But perhaps, despite the passage of time, maybe, just maybe, there are still stories left to be told.

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May I See Your I.D. Please

My husband Bob, my 14-year old daughter Melissa, my inherited daughter Jessica and I sat in a fancy Italian restaurant in Annapolis, Maryland on the eve of my 47th birthday.   As the waitress handed us the wine menu, I decided to break from my traditional beverage of choice (diet coke) and go for something a bit stronger.

Jessica, 10 years my junior, ordered a glass of wine.  The waitress, who admitted we were her first customers to be served on her very first day on the job, informed Jessica of the strict restaurant policy of asking everyone for I.D., thus proving they are of legal age to drink.  Jessica, who had not been carded in quite some time, happily displayed her driver's license. 

With anticipation, I reached for my wallet.  At the ripe old age of 46 years + 364 days, could I possibly experience the insane joy of someone thinking I am not yet old enough to legally have a glass of wine?

Jessica gave her order and the waitress turned to me.

"Do you need to see my I.D. too?" I asked in eager anticipation.

"No, that's ok," she replied.

Apparantly "everyone" did not include me.

Sigh.

Yes, I have officially entered the dreaded "UPPER 40s"!  

You see, when 45 rolled around two years ago, I still felt connected to 44, which is officially a member of the  the "early 40s" family.

Last year, as I begrudgingly welcomed 46, I still felt quite close to 45, so I could reasonably consider myself in the early 40s. 

But 47 is not connected to anything, there are no more excuses.  I am just, plain and simple, getting old.   And here are the top five reasons why:

1. I recently received an email inviting me to become a member of the American Association of Retired Persons.
2. Even though my daily diet consists of rations that would make a rabbit jealous, the needle on the scale just WILL NOT BUDGE!  (To clarify, it does budge occassionally, except in the wrong direction)
3. I get winded riding on my exercise bike.
4. My morning routine includes plucking grey hairs out of my head.
5. My idea of a night cap is a glass of prune juice.  (Nothing beats regularity!)
 
Birthday are a time of reflection, and looking back on the past 47 years, I realize I spent so much time playing the "can't wait" game.

I can't wait until I can drive.
I can't wait to graduate high school.
I can't wait until I have a boyfriend.
I can't wait until I graduate college.
I can't wait until I get a real job.
I can't wait until I get a better job.
I can't wait until I get married.
I can't wait until I have children.
I can't wait until I get a promotion.
I can't wait until we can buy a house.

Today, after uttering the "can't wait" phrase more times than I can count, I am finally at the phase in my life where all of the pieces have fallen into place.   When I leave for work every morning, I do so with the confidence gained from years of experience in health care public relations and marketing.  When I come home from work, I enter into my dream home, purchased after working hard, saving, and moving several times for both my work and Bob's.  Waiting for me when I get home is Bob, who has remained my true love and best friend for 18 years, and Melissa, who has blossomed into such a beautiful and talented young lady.  My beautiful inherited daughter Jessica, who lives in Washington, DC, is happy and healthy and successful.  And even my kitty cat still gets delighted when I walk through the door at the end of the day (although, I admit, it's because he knows he's going to get fed)

I have everything I need and everything I want, right here, right now.   On the whole, I'd say 47 ain't so bad after all.  Happy birthday to me!  Just don't let me forget these sentiments in a year's time. 

Turning 48, well, I can wait!

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Claustrophobia


We are in a souvenir shop on Main Street in the Magic Kingdom, capital of THE HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH!  A thunderstorm, the mandatory weather for Florida in August, has forced theme park goers into the stores, where Mickey t-shirts, toys, and tasty treats battle for the buyers' bottom dollar.


We enthusiastically scan the shelves, each of us determined to purchase a treasured keepsake from our gazillionth trip to Disney World.   My 14-year old daughter Melissa finds a shirt she loves, while my husband Bob chooses an eclectic brand of Mickey coffee.  I, on the other hand, carefully scrutinize stuffed dolls, buttons, magnets, picture frames,  board games, scrap books, sticker albums, candy, and pajamas, until I finally find a black t-shirt emblazoned with a golden Mickey that might, just might, fit my fickle figure.  


We make our way to the dressing room and in I go.  I pull the shirt over my head and sneak a peak in the mirror.  Success!  I can't wait to model my magical Mickey T for Bob and Melisssa!  


I unlock the door and turn the knob.  Nothing happens.  I try again.  Still nothing.


"The door won't open," I yell, as the all too familiar sensation of a quickening pulse and racing heartbeat threaten to overpower my senses.


Then, from outside the door, as my husband takes complete stock of the situation and anticipates my reaction to being stuck, I hear him utter two words that do not make me feel any better.  


"Oh Sh_ _!"


You see, Bob knows all will be well, and that I will not spend my life trapped inside a tiny dressing room in a souvenir shop in Disney World.   He also knows that he married a neurotic woman who suffers from claustrophobia and that, at that moment, said neurotic woman does believe she will be spending the rest of her life trapped inside a tiny dressing room in a souvenir shop in Disney World.


Bob and Melissa talk me through locking and unlocking and turning and pulling, and finally, the door swings open, and I break free from my horror-filled stay in Magic Kingdom prison!  (Alright, I admit, time spent in my "cell" amounted to less than five minutes...but still...)


I have never quite understood my aversion to small, enclosed spaces.  It all has to do with a feeling of being trapped and out of control.  Forget the possibility of ever having an MRI, I would need general anesthesia before allowing them to slide my body into that tiny tube.  If an elevator door takes more than five seconds to open after it has landed on its designated floor, I readily conclude that the door will remain closed forever, and I'll be left inside, gasping for my last few breaths of air as I lie alone and forgotten.  


At my last job, I worked on the third floor.  To my colleagues, I seemed to embrace fitness and exercise, thanks to my "healthy" habit of climbing the steps every day, several times a day.  I encouraged that illusion, lest they know that three flights of stairs were a welcome alternative to the elevator death box of doom.


The worst experience came during a cruise vacation to Mexico.   The ship came equipped with a terrific camp program for kids of all ages, and Melissa, then the tender age of five, couldn't wait to leave her parents behind to join in the fun!


At the end of a fun-filled day, Bob and I, along with at least 50 other guests, boarded an extremely large elevator to take us on the long journey from deck number 1 all the way to the camp on deck number 9,  where my child sat patiently waiting for her mommy and daddy to pick her up.  


As more and more of our fellow cruise-mates climbed into the elevator, I purposely stayed close to the front, an act most likely seen as rude by others, but life-preserving to me.  My husband Bob, fully aware of my neurosis, stuck by my side, determined to ease my anxiety during the long, upward ride towards freedom.  


Finally, when we were properly packed in like the proverbial can of sardines, the elevators doors glided shut, sealing our fate.  I pressed the button for number 9, yet nothing happened.  I pressed the buttons for 6, 7, and 8.  Still, nothing happened.  So then, in a very public panic noticed by all of the unfortunate people stuck inside with me,  I pressed the "door open" button, and then, something finally happened.  


The elevator began to shake, not the slight shaky movement that comes naturally when the car begins to ascend.  This shaking felt more like the side to side shaking typical of an earthquake.  We were not travelling upwards, we were just shaking, and shaking, and shaking.


Unable to control my rising sense of doom, I shouted, "WE'RE TRAPPED, GET ME OUT OF HERE!" and started pressing any and all buttons within reach.  Making matters worse, not only did I face being entombed with 50 strangers, but being trapped meant that I could not get to my baby.  For you see, even worse than being stuck in an elevator is the overwhelming fear that my child is alone or in danger, and try as I might, I cannot reach her.  Even though Melissa is now 14, I still have this fear, which rears its ugly head every so often in the form of a nightmare.


But this scene of horror did not exist in my dreams.  After what felt like several years,(in reality only a few minutes) the elevator doors magically parted, only to reveal we had not moved one inch.  We were still on deck 1.  


I quickly jumped out.  


"What are you doing?" shouted Bob.  "The camp is nine floors up, you have to get back on."


"I'll meet you up there," came my determined reply.  "I'm taking the stairs!"


And take the stairs I did.  All nine flights of them.


When I came to deck 9, panting and heaving, but grateful to be breathing, I met my exasperated husband waiting for me in front of the elevator.  We picked up Melissa and headed back to our cabin to dress for dinner.  Bob and Melissa climbed on board the elevator, and, you guessed it...I took the stairs!

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Nobody Hurts My Daughter!


Last week, as I sat at my desk at work typing frantically, trying to meet a deadline, my ringing phone rudely interrupted my concentration.  The caller ID displayed my 14-year old daughter Melissa's cell phone number, and I naturally assumed she needed me to stop at the store on the way home for poster board or some other craft for a school project due the next day.


I assumed wrong.


Seems that one of her friends,  at some point during her school day, had said something to hurt her feelings.  It did not matter what had been said, all I knew is that this eighth grade girl had uttered words that had caused my daughter pain.   Worse still, I knew that those words were most definitely NOT TRUE, because my kid is the most beautiful, talented, and wonderful person to exist on the planet, and I'm not just saying that because she is mine.  Honest, it's true!


I put my deadline project aside and turned my attention to the task at hand, a task I have tried to perfect since 8:30 pm on 
July 1, 1997..........making everything all better.


We chatted for a few minutes, and hopefully, my words of encouragement made an impact.  However, after hanging up the phone, I found it difficult to resume my concentration.


How dare someone say hurtful words to my daughter!  I needed to take action, to fix this, to make the hurt go away, to make everything all better!!!  There were several options on the table.


Option 1: Find this girl who hurt my child and beat her up.  
(No, a prison jump suit would definitely clash with my skin tone.)


Option 2: Call the girl's mother.
(No, Melissa had specifically requested I refrain from involving the moms, knowing full well it would only result in a new label for my poor kid, "tattle tale." ) 


Option 3: Do nothing, stay out of it, and let her work it out on her own!


WHAT!  No.  Stay out of it!  Unheard of.  Motherhood is my passion, my purpose.....I HAD TO MAKE IT ALL BETTER!


Sigh.


I returned to my project, still stewing with anger, and thinking about simpler times when a mommy's actions did, indeed, take all of the pain away.  


As a preschooler, my sweet toddler always greeted me with open arms, a smile, and an enthusiastic account of her day.  However, on one memorable occasion, I walked into Melissa's classroom only to find her at the table, coloring a picture, and practically in tears.  I placed my large, adult frame into a chair built for a pint-size playmate, put my arms around her, and prepared to make everything all better.


"Mommy, Shawn said he didn't like my picture!" she cried.
(Hmmmm, should I beat up Shawn?)


I picked up the picture and examined it closely.  "Melissa, this is the most beautiful picture I have ever seen," I said reassuringly, wondering silently if the drawing in my hand depicted some sort of animal, or maybe a flower....I honestly did not know. 


"Really?" she sniffled.


"Really!" I said.  "And as soon as we get home, I am going to hang up your picture in the house because it is so pretty."


And true to my word, that very evening the picture earned its rightful place on the refrigerator door, and Melissa forgot all about that stupid Shawn!


Since that fateful afternoon over a decade ago, we have packed up our belongings three times until finally settling into the house we now call home.  Each time I went through the arduous task of filling boxes with our treasured memories, Melissa's picture has held a precious place of honor.  


Today, that same picture (which I have since learned is, indeed, a flower) hangs in my bedroom, along with many other works of art molded by my daughter's creative hands over the years.  
However, no other drawing emits such emotion.  For it is the beautiful flower, drawn by a precious three-year old, that reminds me of a time when the simple act of placing a picture on a refrigerator door was all I needed to do to make the pain go away.


Now, at age 14, I know Melissa is in those precarious years between innocence and adulthood, and all of her experiences will help shape the amazing young woman she is destined to be.   I can offer support, and guidance, and of course, unconditional love, but I have to know when to back away and let her handle what life throws at her....no matter how much I want to fix the problem.


Seems later that evening, Melissa and her friend were now texting away, the hurtful words shared earlier now a distant memory.  


As hard as it had been, I am so glad I decided to stay out of it.   Option number three.....the best choice for me.  


Although next time, I can't promise I won't challenge the offender to an after school duel.  


Because nobody hurts my daughter!  Nobody! 

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Nocturnal Nonsense

Several months ago, somewhere between the time my head hit the pillow and my alarm clock shook me out of bed, my husband Bob began twitching and shaking in his sleep.  I gently rubbed his arm, with the goal of easing him out of his bad dream without causing him to shout in terror.

"Sweety, are you alright?" I asked soothingly.

He turned to me with a look of confusion on his face before uttering these incomprehensible words, "I have to go to the bathroom but I don't know where it is."

Now, at this point I should explain that we have called our current location "home" for the past eight years.  Navigation to and from said bathroom can be accomplished quite easily, even without the aid of a GPS unit.  (In point two feet, turn left at the end of the bed, then arrive at destination on right)  So when Bob questioned his inability to remember the site of the room where he has read countless novels while sitting on the porcelain throne, I became concerned.  Perhaps the early symptoms of dementia had taken hold, threatening to rob my hubby of all of his precious memories.

"Bob, our bathroom is right over there, just where it's always been," I said reassuringly.

He stared at me once again, trying to comprehend the instructions I had just provided.  Then, he began  to giggle.  "Oh," he said, laughing even harder.  "I'm dreaming!"

And with that he rolled over, re-positioned the pillows, closed his eyes and promptly returned to his land of nocturnal nonsense.

I should have blamed the dream world immediately, for this certainly cannot be counted as Bob's first night time break with reality.  My earliest inkling that deep REM sleep would cause irrational behavior came early on in our marriage, when a bedroom ceiling fan provided some measure of relief during the hot summer months inside our new home.  One day, during those dangerous hours between dark and light, Bob woke up in a panic, pointed up and the ceiling fan and yelled for the world to hear...

"THERE'S A HELICOPTER IN THE HOUSE!  THERE'S A HELICOPTER IN THE HOUSE!"

After convincing my poor husband that our bedroom did not serve as the opening sequence for M.A.S.H., he fell back asleep.  As for me, I lay awake and  wondered, did I marry a nutcase?  Perhaps.  But his nocturnal nonsense seemed harmless at best, and made for good stories to entertain friends and family.  Certainly he'd never actually cause harm to himself....or me.....

Or so I thought.

A few months later, we had enjoyed a long, tiring, yet fun-filled day touring the city of Boston.  By the time 11 pm rolled around, we more than happily snuggled into our cozy, king-size hotel room bed, hoping to reclaim the energy needed for another day of sightseeing.  Suddenly, Bob awakened from a deep sleep, his fist pumped, ready to strike.  I rolled over and looked at my mate, a stranger ready to pummel me to pieces.  Before I had the chance to run for my life he stopped and said, "Oh wait, I know who you are!"

Saved by the sanity.

The next time I did not fare quite so well.

Seems my prize-fighter of a husband conjured a dream where he entered the ring, about to go up against heavy weight champion Joe Frazier.  Only, Joe's body was, in reality, the back of my head.  Thankfully I had not been sleeping with my face toward him, for lord only knows what would have become of my nose.  He awakened quite startled at the sound of my screaming, wondering why I would cry in the middle of the night, and insisting his target had been Joe, not me.

Sigh.

Now if you ask Bob, he'll insist his nocturnal nonsense pales in comparison to mine, and unfortunately, my 14-year old daughter Melissa can back up his claim.

If I am having a nightmare, it usually involves terror of some sort of another, and an increasingly frustrating inability to actually let out a dream-based scream.  Invariably, as I try to call for help, I end up emitting a low, eerie sounding moan, which gradually gets louder and louder as my voice appears to channel dark spirits until finally, an ear-splitting, terrifying scream erupts from the deepest bowels of my body, scaring my husband, daughter, neighbors, folks in China, etc., out of their minds.

Melissa will yell, "MOM WAKE UP!"

Bob will grab me and hug me and repeat over and over, "It's only a dream, it's only a dream, it's only a dream."

Unlike Bob, after a troubling nightmare my mind stays alert, rehashing the horror over and over.  Whereas he simply rolls over and reenters his slumber, unaware of his antics until I remind him in the morning.

As for Melissa, seems she has not inherited her parents' propensity for nocturnal nonsense and doesn't appreciate when our dreams interrupt her deep sleep.

To her we're just a couple of nocturnal nincompoops.  Sounds like the plot of a bad dream where Bob is in a boxing match and I am his opponent and nobody can help me because try as I might, I can't scream... oh no, here we go again...AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

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The B. A.T. Invasion

The early evening air gathered thick outside, the kind of air welcomed with open arms by electric companies as people hide behind closed doors and windows and happily crank up their air conditioning units to escape the summer scorcher.

While my husband Bob and my then six-year old daughter Melissa, now 14, quietly watched cartoons, I crept up to my room in our modest town home,  turned on the ceiling fan and placed my head gently on the pillow, hoping to close my eyes for a few minutes before Melissa's night time bath routine brought me out of my slumber.

In the distance I heard a low rumble, alerting me to the inevitable approach of the kind of thunderstorm that strikes at the heart of humidity.  

I had barely had time to drift into REM sleep when I heard Bob call my name, caution in his voice.  Bleary eyed, I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to comprehend his cryptic message.

"Lisa, there's a B. A. T. in the house," he spelled with forced calm, hoping Melissa wouldn't catch on.

As I walked into the hallway and watched a scene of horror unfold before my eyes, I quickly deduced that Bob had not been talking about bats of the baseball kind.  

A black creature with a wing span of 4,000 feet flew up the stairs, his goal to attack and turn me into a vampire! With my cat following close behind (although I've never been quite sure what the fearless feline would have done if he had caught the darn thing) Mr. B. A. T. flew into Melissa's bedroom.  Thinking fast, I raced to close her bedroom door and trap him in there.  Her sleeping quarters not being an issue at the moment, I naturally assumed she'd just bunk in my bed for the rest of her life.

Unfortunately, Mr. B. A. T. had other plans.  No sooner did he enter Melissa's room did he fly back out again, straight for my face!  So, in an effort to stay calm so as not to upset my daughter, I did what all mature, grown up, rational adults do in moments like this.  

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

In my effort to escape my impending death, I turned, tripped over my cat, nearly fell down the stairs (breaking my toe in the process) and ran into the living room where Bob still tried to convince Melissa that our friendly neighborhood B. A. T., still in hot pursuit, was, in reality, just a bird.

Bob opened the sliding glass doors that led to our small back yard and hurried Melissa and me outside.  Still screaming, I ran into our yard, then around to the front of the house where our next door neighbors Angelica, Louie, and their two young sons Chris and Brandon had come outside to find out why the normally quiet Weinstein family had seemingly lost their minds.

As the thunder rumbled a bit louder in the distance, and the westward sky darkened, we caught our breath and, together with our neighbors, tried to develop a B. A. T. coping  strategy more effective than "spending the rest of our lives in a hotel."

Just then, another neighbor pulled up in his car, a young single guy named Don who seemed to think we should just go into our house and trap the B. A. T. in a paper shopping bag, bring the bag outside and release the creature back into the wild, if you can call a New Jersey suburb "the wild".

Hmmmm, should we  choose Holiday Inn, Hilton, Sheraton, or Marriott?

Fortunately, Don offered to play the "catch the bat in the bag"  game for us.  

Angelica volunteered a paper shopping bag, handed it to Don, and wished him luck as he entered the B. A. T. lair of doom.  A few minutes passed with no word from Don.  The thunder grew a bit louder and flashes of lightening were now visible on the horizon.     

Still, in the still air we waited, and waited, and waited.

Finally, Don emerged with "bat in bag" and, as Melissa, Chris, Brandon, Bob, Louie, Angelica, and I all let out blood curdling streams loud enough to rival the approaching thunderstorm, Don released the B. A. T. from the bag of captivity.

End of story.  

Or so we thought.

Fast forward to "B.A.T. Invasion - Day Two".  

The next night, with Melissa bathed and tucked snugly into bed, I noticed the cat staring intently at our air conditioning vent.  Knowing full well that cat ears hear things that human ears can't decipher, I became concerned.  

THEN THE UNIMAGINABLE HAPPENED!

Bob and I watched in horror as claws appeared gripped onto the inside of our living room air vent, looking for an escape route.  

Not wanting to wake Melissa, I kept my screams to a minimum and instead, frantically dialed the local animal control office who informed us that bats eat pesky insects like mosquitoes and are therefore a protected species.  Their hands were tied.  The B. A. T. would have to stay.  Quite frankly, I didn't care if bats ate mosquitoes, grass hoppers, locusts, dogs, cats, pigs, bears, or killer sharks.   I WANTED THE CREATURE OUT OF MY HOUSE!

Willing to risk any punishment animal control forced upon me, I took a can of RAID flying insect killer and sprayed it into every single air vent.  Then, drawing on super human strength that only appears when confronted with creatures of the dark, I positioned heavy furniture so that it covered nearly every air vent.  Just let that B. A. T. even try to attempt escape!  Not on my watch.

The next day, we had a guy from a pest control service check out our home.  He quickly determined that Mr. B. A. T. had either died, escaped or evaporated, either way, no sign of the winged wonder existed in our air events, or anywhere else in the house, for that matter.

We had survived our terrifying encounter unscathed. But sometimes, during that brief time of day when daylight transforms into the grey skies of dusk, I see bats flying about in the distance and I wonder, do they know I probably killed their cousin?

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!



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The Lost Anniversary Band

A few days ago, I suffered a small cut on my finger.  I know, you are imagining pools of blood and frantic calls to 911, but alas, my life lacks that kind of drama.  The cut fell into the category of minor at best, however, it did cause my finger to swell a bit, making for a tight fit for the diamond anniversary band my husband Bob bestowed upon me many years ago.

Uncomfortable, I struggled to get the ring off and then placed it in a safe place in a small box in a drawer.  It felt strange not to wear the ring for a few days, as I had barely taken it off in over a decade. 

I can still remember the day Bob presented me with this oh so unexpected present.  At the time we shared a modest, two-bedroom townhome with our then four-year old daughter Melissa, now 14.  Bob, like so many before him, had decided to chase the American dream by starting his own company.  A commission-based business, one sale seemed like a windfall, but that money had to last several months until the next paycheck came along.   If I had my way, I'd budget the exact amount we'd need for groceries, pre-school, clothes, gas, etc.   But Bob had other plans.  He took a big chunk of that windfall and spent it, quite unneccessarily at the time, on a diamond ring to celebrate our seventh anniversary.

When I tore open the wrapping, lifted the lid on the box, and stared down at this beautiful ring, a mixed menagerie of conflicting thoughts ran through my mind:

1. My husband is crazy.
2. We can't afford this, we have to make our money last, and we're barely getting by as it is.
3. It's beautiful.
4. My husband really loves me!
5. I really love him too!

I chose, through my delighted reaction, to only reveal numbers 3, 4, and 5 to him.  The ring proudly took its place on my finger, and I truly felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

So back to my cut finger.  After a few days wrapped inside a Sponge Bob band aid (The first aid of choice for 14-year old daughters),  and a few drops of ointment, the tiny cut had, indeed, healed.  Determined to put the ring back where it belonged, I got out of the shower, wrapped my long hair in a towel, put on a robe, and looked in my drawer for the secret ring hiding place.  Ironically, as I moved years worth of clutter out of the way looking for the box where I stashed the ring, I began to worry. What if I can't find the box?  What if I find the box but the ring isn't there?  What if I put the ring some place else, but forgot where?   What if someone stole it?

My panic was for naught, as I opened the box and found the ring sitting exactly where I had left it, just patiently waiting for me to come back.  As I went through the motion of placing it on my finger, however, the ring slipped out of my hands, which were still a bit wet and slippery from the shower.  Then it bounced on the edge of my dresser, and "poof" simply vanished.

At first, pure logic took over.  Unless I lived at Hogwarts, objects didn't just magically dissappear.  The three dresser drawers were all slighly ajar, so more than likely, one of those drawers now played host to my ring.   Taking a deep breath to steady my mounting panic, I hurridly searched through drawer number one.  No luck.  Drawer number two, nothing but socks.  Drawer number three.  Nada, zilch, zippo, nothing.

I would not cry, I told myself.  I would not cry.  The ring had to be in the vacinity, I just had to look more carefully.  I glanced over at Bob who still had 15 more minutes of morning slumber before the alarm clock forced him to start his day.  I didn't want to disturb his precious few remaining moments of sleep, but desperate times called for desperate measures.   At the sound of my voice whispering his name, he rolled over and opened his eyes, only to find his wife standing there, tears streaming down her face.

He jumped out of bed, the reluctant hero, rushing to save the day.  With his help, a more thorough search ensued.  We lifted papers and bedcovers, looked in trashcans, combed the shower floor.  Still...nothing.

Could my anniversary gift of long ago be replaced?  Yes.

Would the sentiments born out of each day of my marriage come attached to the new model?  No.

I had to find that ring!

Finally, Bob and I had to give in to the clock, which firmly told us that unless time stood still, we would soon be late for work.  I went through the motions of my daily routine.  Tasks and requests usually met with a shrug caused anger and frustration, as my loss enveloped me in a dark cloud throughout the day.

I had to find that ring!

A few hours later I found myself back in my bedroom, with Bob by my side and a flashlight in hand to scour tiny nooks and crannies behind doors and dressers.   However, I soon realized that searching required strategy, and Bob had a different plan.  Although grateful for his help, I dismissed him from the bedroom, then set to work.

I pulled out the top dresser drawer and set it on the floor, staring at a culmination of years of "stuff" that at one time or another must have been deemed valuable.   Since I had to look anyway, I decided to use this time to organize and toss items no longer needed. 

1. Underwear.  Save. 
2. Bank deposit statements from 2007.  Toss.
3. Red lipstick I have never used.  Toss.  No wait, save...you never know.
4. An expired American Express credit card.  Toss.
5. An expired health insurance card.  Toss. 
6. A small picture frame given to me by Melissa five years ago.  Toss.  No wait, save for the sentimental value.
7. Four watches with broken batteries.  Toss.  No wait, save.  Even though I haven't worn them in years, maybe I'll get the batteries fixed.
8. An old diary from 1990, the year I met Bob.  Save.  Defintely save!
9. A note from Melissa to her mommy, written five or six years ago, love tucked inside every misspelled word.  Save. Save. Save. Save.

Momentarily forgetting about the ring, I picked up the diary and relived my emotions during those first few uncertain, whirlwind months of dating my new beau.  Then, picking up the note, I relived the innocence of a little girl who thought nothing of scribbling a handwritten note of affection to the woman who had not yet been placed in the category of "embarrassing".

I walked into Melissa's room and showed her the note.  She shook her head in disbelief and said in a voice of exasperation, "What the heck, I really didn't know how to spell?!"

Completely missing the point, I didn't try to explain.  Someday, when she has kids of her own, she too, will treasure every handwritten note, with misspelled words capturing a moment in time.  For once words are corrected and mistakes no longer grace the page, your children have moved on, grown older, leaving their innocence forever behind.

I tucked the diary, and the note, these precious pieces of my past, back inside the drawer and resumed my strategic search.  Picking up a pile of underwear now scattered all over the floor, I folded each pair and placed it neatly back where it belonged.   And there, sitting on the floor, hidden under the last pair of underwear, sat my ring.

In response to my shout of jubilation, Melissa and Bob came running into the bedroom.

"Don't ever take it off again mom," Melissa instructed.

I looked at my child happily and replied, "Don't worry, I won't."

And as my daughter and husband went back to doing whatever they were doing, I looked down at the ring, then thought of the diary and the note, and seriously wondered which item held more value. 

The answer?  They're all priceless.

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