Author: momsequitur

The Great Cul De Sac Battle of 2020

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This time it’s personal.

Sting me once, shame on you.

Sting me twenty-five times, and I’m getting the biggest can of Raid I can find…

This time of year, I mow the lawn about once a week.  The hour or so I spend out there is both enervating and relaxing.  I work up an honest sweat, get some terrific exercise, and see immediate results of my labor.

Honestly, it’s treasured me-time.

About six weeks ago I was happily, innocently cutting the grass.  I was in our side yard, serenely pushing Hondo, our self-propelled, self-mulching mower.  Suddenly, I felt a burning sensation on my leg, similar to the feeling of being burned by a cigarette. 

I beg to differ, they left plenty of stingers.

Then before I knew it another, and another.  Then I saw wasps before being stung twice more.

I jumped around like a lunatic for a minute, swiping at already departed beasts and ran inside the house.  Petey helped me make sure they were all gone, I took a couple of pain relievers, and went back out and finished the yard.

I assumed they had built a nest on the house, under a bit of siding and vowed to be careful when mowing in the vicinity or turning on the hose, which was located there.

A week later I was again in the area cutting the grass and taking great care to give the house in that space a wide berth.  I mowed the strip abutting the flower bed with a wary eye toward the wall.

All of a sudden my world exploded.  The wasps were everywhere.  They bit exposed flesh and then dove under my clothing and began stinging.  Then they crawled under my ankle socks and into my sneakers to bite my feet.

My dancing from the week before looked like the movement of a merry-go-round horse compared to the rabid racehorse gyrations I was doing in my yard.  My language was so colorful there were colors unseen on the human spectrum (which was especially embarrassing because my neighbor,  a minister, was sitting on her front porch with visitors).

I ran inside again, and again Petey helped me both remove wasps and the many stingers their compatriots had left behind. 

In all, we counted twenty-five stings; my right elbow being the recipient of five separate and distinct attacks.  I took a couple of pain relievers along with a couple benadryl tablets to fight the vemon that was now coursing through my veins.

Then.

I.went.out.and.finished.mowing.  Looking back, it was the most badass moment of my life. 

And, I’d always thought I was a big baby.

RBG: The reigning queen of badass, now and forever.

I discovered later that the wasps were not in a nest on the house, but yellow jackets that live underground.  Hondo and I had both run over their front door.

Later that night I hurt everywhere and was red, hot, and puffy.  The next day the pain was gone and I was itchy.  The following day my lips began to tingle.  Then they began to swell.

Yup, that’s me…

Well, the top lip swelled.  I looked like a Simpson character sporting one of their extreme overbites.  The doctor gave me steroids to speed the poison out of my system and I spent the next week in a benadryl-induced fog.

I now have an Epi-pen in case of another attack and a resulting dangerous reaction.

If this was a comic book I’d end up with a tiny waist, a cute, sexy yellow and black costume, the power of flight and a lethal sting.    

But I get a fat lip and probable fatal allergy to future wasp stings.

Ah, 2020, thou art the harshest of harsh mistresses.

Thanks for your time.

Contact me at d@bullcity.mom.

The State of the Union

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When I started writing newspaper columns, I was the greenest of greenhorns.

I wrote for the newspaper and yearbook of every school I attended.  I was even the editor of my college yearbook for about five minutes.  But I’d never written this type of essay for a publication before.  I had no idea what was expected of me and needed to know the rules.

As it turns out, there’s only one rule.

Be honest.

That’s it.  When I write, I tell the truth. 

Well, Gentle Reader, prepare yourself for the toughest, most honest 600 words I’ve ever written.

In one more depressing example of what a profoundly sucky year this has been, I’d come to the conclusion that my marriage would end before this most annus horribilis of 2020 did.

It was all over but the legalities.

We were both stuck in our own separate quagmires of anguish.

Petey had shut down.  A man who’s made taciturnity and stoicism into an art form raised the bar to mute, celestial heights.

My misery took the form of overspending on ridiculously unnecessary trivialities.  I also binged on the darkest of music with optimistically titled songs like, “The Gallows”, “Cradle On Fire”, and “Blood For You” and feel good lyrics such as, “They will come and find you, bringing out the dead” and “Nothing lasts forever in a God-forsaken town.”

Awesome music, perfect for wallowing.

I didn’t have anything left in the tank to cushion myself from the assaults which this misbegotten year seems to deliver in a constant and unending fashion.  The daily litany of appalling new updates hit me like body blows from a disgruntled sumo wrestler.  I had a never-ending stomachache. 

In times of normal stress or deep concentration, I clench my jaw.  I was clenching so often and so fiercely I was giving myself earaches and migraines.  I’d begun wearing a mouthguard day and night.

I wanted to be alone.  I daydreamed of a hermit-like existence in a cabin deep in the woods where there was no plague, no sputtering economy, no disheartening political drama, and no spouses to hurt and disappoint.  My plan was to retreat and re-emerge, Rip Van Winkle-like, into a future where hate, fear, and the Kardashians had all disappeared.

But I wanted to be sure that we had given our marriage of almost four decades every possible chance before it was abandoned.  Petey agreed to accompany me to counseling. 

Which, for my reticent island of a husband, was a huge statement.

Our first visit was in early July. 

The first few weeks were hard but illuminating.  The therapist was surprisingly, sometimes uncomfortably, observant.  Early on it was clear he saw us and understood our dynamic as a couple.  Our homework that first week was for Petey to talk more, and me, shockingly, to talk less.

We needed someone to hold our feet to the fire and ask the hard questions; to force us to ask rather than assume.  He enabled us to reset and remember.

Turns out, we were both laboring under false impressions and wading through stagnant pools of hurt feelings and misunderstandings.

After more than thirty years of joy that came so easily, we had never learned how to navigate real, grinding hardship.  Our therapist gave us the tools we needed, and the confidence to anticipate happiness on the other side.

But I think the member of the Matthews Family Band who is the most relieved about our rapprochement is our dog, Crowley.  On our walks, he’d become the repository for my every grievance and affront.  I’m sure he’s euphoric to end his tenure as my furry, four-legged, father confessor.

Happy Crowley

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

Harry and Bess

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Does everybody that has a dog have “dog friends”?

Human friends that you’ve met while out with your dog, not friends that are dogs, although I have those, as well.

Two of my dog friends, Stu and Miri had a tough week.

When the week started, they had a determined little cuss of a snowball pooch named Darby, a bunny called Daisy, and a new puppy.

By the time the week ended, they only had Darby.  Daisy had suddenly died, and the puppy had to be returned to the shelter.

Poor Miri was gutted and shed tears from both guilt and loss.  I felt terrible for her.

Because Petey and I, years ago, had had to do the same thing.

When we’d been married for a couple of years, we got an adorable, shy, Chow puppy.  We named him Harry.  And, although he remained skittish of strangers, he loved us fiercely and we loved him right back.

When I was pregnant with The Kid, we began talking about getting a canine companion for Harry since he would no longer be an only “child” and our sole focus. 

One day when The Kid was about four or five months out, we saw an ad in the paper.  A local family had a chow who’d had a surprise litter—half chow and half something else.  They needed good homes and we thought our pup would enjoy being a big brother and teaching a youngster the doggy ropes.

We visited and came home with a half chow, half maybe-German shepherd female pup.

We named her Bess (Get it? Harry and Bess?  As in Truman?)

There is an old wive’s tale that if you want to make a dog mean, you feed them gunpowder (Absolutely don’t do this, it’s cruel and could kill the dog).  I’d never heard it before we got Bess. 

But Petey mentioned it one day.  Because Bess was in constant, destructive, mischievous motion.

She knocked over houseplants and played in the dirt.  She chewed woodwork, furniture, and cabinets.  She put holes in any clothing she could reach.

But she saved her real evildoing for Harry and me.

She seemed to like Petey.  But she chased poor old Harry upstairs and down, from one room to the next.  The only peace he ever got was when Bess slept, but he kept eyes on her because she could be awake and attacking in a split second.  He was a little faster, but she bit at him whenever she could reach him.  After a while, his fluffy Chow Chow tail was a sad, hairless, pink stalk.

For me, she had two signature moves.  She’d come up close to me and look at me with her adorable puppy face.  I’d scratch her under her chin, and she’d lean in.  Then she’d jump up and bite me in the face.  Luckily I’d just end up scratched by her very sharp puppy teeth.  And, I never learned.  I’d fall for it every, single, time.

This isn’t me, and it’s makeup.

Her second move was much more dangerous.

When I walked up or downstairs, she would weave her body in and out between my feet. 

But, remember, I was pregnant.  We tried training her out of the behaviors, but she persisted.  We had no choice, for Harry’s sanity, my safety, and the health of our unborn child; we had to give her up.

As I told Miri, finding a dog is like falling in love.  When you’re ready, the right one will come along and become a member of your family.  But sometimes the wrong one will make a brief appearance and try to bite your face off.

Thanks for your time.

Contact me at d@bullcity.mom.

Things I’ve Learned in Quarantine

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It may feel frustrating, or worrisome, or even boring, but this is above all a profound time we’re living through.  And, when we (hopefully) come through this astonishing, bewildering idle, we will have no choice but to settle into a new life.  Because after 2020, things will never be the same again.

And even I am not dumb enough to predict what that new world will look like—my heart is set on better, but the smart money is on the lower, yet more precarious bar of transformed.

We may not be able to count on an improved world, but we can labor, during this time, to improve ourselves.  Below is a list of some of the things I’ve learned while in quarantine.

Turtle Leeches  An animal obsessed friend was playing with Crowley when he found a small turtle, the size of the palm of a hand.  When he was showing us, we noticed small back objects clinging to both shell and skin. 

At first, we all assumed it was poop.  But then the “poop” began to move.  Turns out, they were tiny leeches with cobra-shaped heads.  In all, my friend pulled off eight leeches.

Later, I went to the Google.

Turns out, in the wonder and majesty of nature, there are leeches can only suck the blood of turtles. 

It makes sense, because in my yard there’s a swarm of rabid mosquitos who will only suck the blood of me.

Self-Soothing There’s an online business called Steampunk Tendencies.  They post videos of the creation of the items that they then put up for sale.  There’s one clip of an artist painting gold filigree around the edge of a large conference table—freehand.

The first couple of times I watched, I marveled at the skill and ease of the painter.  Viewing it a few more times, I noticed how peaceful it made me feel.  After I’d been watching it on loop for a while, I was so chill, I was almost drooling.

Honest, it’s more calming than a valium washed down with a martini.  

Talenti Chocolate Sorbetto  I always kept a tub of Talenti chocolate sorbet in my chill chest.  It was creamy and delicious and only 150 calories per serving.  I only ate it by the spoonful, from the container, standing in front of the freezer.  But when I needed some chocolate before I opened my mouth and let spill the poison darts my brain was thinking it was my delicious go-to.

Sixteen months and nine days ago, they retired the flavor—and broke my heart.

But it’s back!  There’s a few more calories, but it’s still an amazing, frozen, chocolaty treat.  In my freezer right now?  A half-eaten pint and a brand new, full container for backup.

Phone Fun for Almost Everyone  If you own a phone, you probably haven’t noticed, but each day this madness goes on, it becomes tougher and tougher to give cell phones a hard pass.  Try ordering food for curbside pickup, or checking-in for an appointment, or buying a ticket for something without a smartphone.  

Training For Rapture I am convinced that when the lockdowns are over, and people go back to work on a daily basis, there will be two kinds of folks.

The kind that took this time to work out and train, transforming their bodies into tight, rippling sculpture.

And, the kind that exercised by hiking to the kitchen,  binged a ton of TV, and existed on the four basic food groups of fat, salt, sugar, and cheese. 

Hey, whatever it takes to make it through to the other side, right?

Thanks for your time.

Contact me at d@bullcity.mom.

Heart Throb

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Hello Gentle Reader,

I recently discovered that this column is very similar to another that I wrote 2 1/2 years ago.

Rather than a re-run, this essay is more of a reboot.

So, without further ado, please enjoy a tale of my elementary school love life.

Take care and stay safe,

d

This is going to date the heck out of me, but when I was in kindergarten, at Lad & Lassie School in Mobile, Alabama, I was madly in love with Bobby Sherman.

I thought he was dreamy.  I had a Bobby Sherman lunch box.

When he sang “Julie Do You Love Me?”, my besotted brain changed Julie to debbie.  He was also the star of his own short-lived sitcom.  IMDB informs us that the name of the show was “Getting Together”, but until now I always assumed, it was, “The Bobby Sherman Show”.

That’s what I called it in my heart.  My fickle, fickle heart.

By the first grade, I was all about Donny Osmond.  And I loved sister Marie; I couldn’t wait for her to be my sister-in-law.

I’d received a portable cassette player and the Osmond Brothers “Crazy Horses” cassette for Christmas.  Every afternoon, I would grab it and rush down to Cathy Ainge’s house (unlike me, she didn’t have brothers, so it was much more peaceful at her place).

We’d pop in that cassette and proceed to squeal at the sound of our beloved’s voice.  Then, we’d swoon like a Jane Austin heroine seeing her first hairy chest.  How her mother put up with it is anybody’s guess.

I read Teen Beat and Tiger Beat magazines.  But 16 (the fan mag, not to be confused with the fashion mag for older girls, Seventeen), was our absolute fave.  In addition to interviews and layouts with Donny and a host of other cute boys, they printed serials about different celebrities that ran for months.

We were about six months into a Donny serial and deeply immersed.  There were probably at least six more months to go when my dad came home from work one day to announce that our Coast Guard family was being transferred to Puerto Rico.

I was already, at nine-years-old, a veteran of these moves.  And who wouldn’t want to have a three-year vacation in a tropical paradise? 

I refused.

Of course, I would miss my friends.  I would miss the Girl Scouts and my Brownie troop.  I was also shortstop on my t-ball team, which I loved.  The kids that lived in my neighborhood were my cohorts and my squad.  The neighborhood itself was still full of places I hadn’t yet explored.

But I was a Coastie kid, and moving every few years was part of the deal; I knew I’d make new friends, have new clubs and activities, and have many new places to explore. 

No, my relocation veto had nothing to do with any of those things.

It was because of my (current) one true love, Donny Osmond.

I was staying in North Carolina because I had no idea if 16 magazine was available at newsstands in Puerto Rico—and I was taking no chances.

It speaks to my parents’ ability to wisely deal with the upheavals that came with being a Coast Guard family, that they took my objections seriously.  They proposed a plan in which I would earn the money in advance, and my mother’s best friend, Mizz Judy would purchase the magazine each month through the run of the serial, and mail it to our new home in the Caribbean.

Mizz Judy faithfully kept mailing, and I kept reading until Donny’s multi-part adventures had concluded.  And, our dreamlike sojourn in the very Northwestern corner of that little coral outcropping called the Borinquen (bo-rink-can) became one of my very favorite homes.

And, Donny was far from the last crush I had.  And as I grew up and matured, so did my crushes and the motivations for them.

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

Hot, Cranky Questions

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Normally, I am friendly and kind.

Normally.

But the North Carolina summer is so malevolently awful that it feels personal.  I can’t argue with hot though, because there is no combination of words I can say that will make it cooler and less humid. 

And, standing outside, yelling, and shaking my fist at the sky just confirms suspicions that my neighbors have had about me all along.

So, I walk around all summer, every summer, disgruntled.  Usually, my gruntle returns in early October about the time the State Fair comes to town.  Then that big ole bag of grumpy departs like a hummingbird heading south for the winter.

I strive to stifle my summer-originated rage.  But on especially gross days in which I am forced to spend extended time outside, my animosity bubbles to the surface, like a particularly noxious aquifer in the form of sarcastic, smart-alecky questions.

Some are purely rhetorical, some I know the answers to, and some are actual head-scratchers and are the result of honest, albeit cantankerous curiosity.

Do you know what’s unfair?  Having gray hair, wrinkles, and acne all on the same head.  It’s those infernal masks.  Wearing one is a giant pain.  It’s punishingly hot and moist under here.  I am beyond sick of smelling and breathing my own breath.  I’m always forgetting it and having to run back to the car.  It makes my glasses fog up.

It’s one of the best ways, though, to protect yourself and others from transmission.  But I keep seeing a puzzling phenomenon all over the place and even on the faces of TV reporters.  So I have to ask; why even bother wearing that mask if you’re gonna leave your nose outside?

So, those murder hornets that were supposed to invade our shores and spread a swath of death and destruction everywhere they went.  What happened to them?

I have a theory. They arrived in the US and saw the news and read a few papers.  When they realized what a flaming hot mess 2020 is, they turned around and went back to Mars.

Why can’t I eat ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?  It’s hot!

Madonna: desperately seeking sanity.

Singer Sam Smith, Jennifer Lopez, Drake, Madonna, et al, posting tone-deaf videos and photos from multi-multi-million dollar homes complaining about the boredom/anxiety of quarantining. 

On behalf of all the people out here who aren’t riding around our private islands on a unicorn while wearing gold-plated underclothes; might you please shut the heck up?

There are actually folks who will gaze at you with a slightly manic look and state with a straight face, that they “love the heat”.

What is wrong with them?

Camping.  Leaving one’s comfortable homes full of running water, electricity, and air conditioning for the charms of sleeping on the ground, eating food that’s either half-raw or burned to charcoal, and being feasted upon by any number of insects.

Why would anybody in their right mind do that on purpose?

Would somebody please explain to me why fried dough covered in a honey glaze is so much tastier than a carrot?

Throughout history, different body shapes are in or out of fashion.  During the Italian Renaissance, the style was Rebuenesque; plump and ample.  In the roaring 20s, it was desirable to be slim with straight hips and a boyish figure.  Marilyn Monroe was the ideal in the 1950s with an hourglass figure.

So when are flat butts and big feet going to have a turn?

Finally, somebody, please tell me, I’ve gotta know—how hard is it to actually change a roll of toilet paper?

Thanks for your time.

Contact me at d@bullcity.mom.

Free The Speech!

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That’s not how this works.  That’s not how any of this works.

There’s been a lot of pearl-clutching and panty twisting lately on the subject of free speech, and whether the concept is dead, dying, or on life support.

This guarantee was seen as so important, so foundational, it is the very first freedom promised by the US Constitution.  It, along with freedom of religion, freedom of the press, and the right to peacefully gather make up the first amendment of the US constitution.  The founding fathers, fresh from colonialism, revolt, occupation, and war decided these rights should be made paramount.  The very first of the bill of rights.

I know, Gentle Reader, that you are a scholar in the way of civics and have a full understanding of the right to free speech and how it applies to US citizens and implications thereof.

But sadly, not everyone does.

And even though the majority of us are under a stay at home order, unless you literally live under a rock, you will hear of or read of someone decrying the “assault” on free speech.  They are convinced and try to convince you that unless we as a nation vote for a certain party, or watch a certain channel, or listen to a specific talking head, we are surely headed for calamity.

Much of the time, though, these Constitutional Cassandras have it all wrong.

If a CEO loses it on Twitter and uses those 280 characters to vent his hateful spleen and disparage women, or a has-been comedian tells a racist joke, or a sportscaster lectures followers according to the beliefs of his very judgy religion, they are gonna catch it.

They’re going to hear about it from everybody with a keyboard.  They or their product might be boycotted by the offended.  There’s a really good chance they’re going to be unemployed by dinnertime the next day.

But what they’re not going to be, is imprisoned by the government.

Because they didn’t break the law.

What about the blow-back from employers and the rest of the offended?

Those are the very legal consequences of private companies and the reaction of private citizens.  And all of these are themselves a type of free speech.

Every person in this country can say the most offensive, hateful, and downright jerky thing they care to say—free of criminal repercussions.  That, my friends, is how free speech works. 

…and can we talk about that profile pic? How old is that thing?

Another scenario: after eons of suffering oppression, suppression, and/or repression, a marginalized group and their supporters have had enough and protest.

They march.  They chant.  They carry signs, posters, and banners.  They make lots of noise in order to get lots of attention, with the intent to change the status quo.  They challenge authority and speak their truth to power—peacefully.

They are not anarchists, or thugs, or vandals.  They are citizens exercising their right to freedom of speech.  You might not agree with them, you might hate or fear them.  But they are not mobs breaking the law by just speaking out.

Each one of us hears or reads opinions we don’t like every day.  There are plenty of people with a website, microphone, or bully pulpit that I dearly wish would sit down and shut up, forever.

But despite how deluded or evil that I think they may be, they’re not breaking the law.  So, I turn the channel, or the page, or my attention, away.  That’s my right.

And the first amendment of the United States Constitution, one of the greatest documents in human history, gives them (and me) the right to sound as dumb as they (we) want.

I don’t try to be a jerk…

Thanks for your time.

Contact me at d@bullcity.mom.

Are You Gonna Read That?

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Although the vast majority of raising The Kid has been fun, rewarding, and taught me about the unending nature of a human’s ability to love, there is one area of deep disappointment.

The Kid doesn’t like Trixie Belden books.

My generation Trixie.

Trixie and her friends, the Bob-Whites, have adventures and solve mysteries in the Hudson Valley.  Growing up in a military family that moved every three years or so, these kids were constant friends.

I so looked forward to sharing them.  When The Kid was a toddler, I found the first sixteen at a used bookstore, bought them, and put them away until my child was ready.

Trixie, The Next Generation

I was so excited when it was time.

Yeah, huge bust.  The Kid didn’t like them. 

There are books we both love, but all those daydreams about passing Trixie books along and having breathless confabs discussing plot, characters, and settings went up in smoke.

The Kid’s very favorite book. Petey and I found an autographed one for a birthday one year that has become our child’s most prized possession.

But, recently, it’s happened.

It’s not those childhood faves, but a genre that’s captured us both.

They’re modern reinterpretations of the thriller.  They are the fast-paced combination of mystery, adventure, and psychological studies.  But the thing we love the most about them are the twists.

If the perpetrator is someone completely unexpected, or the entire story flips in the last chapter in an organic and believable way, we are all over that book like a pair of brand-new spandex yoga pants.

I discovered them and introduced them to my bookworm child.

Can we just change the subject?

They have been a godsend for The Kid, who is high risk and thus, self-quarantining.  You can only have so many deep conversations with the dog before the dog starts talking back.

During these preposterous, unprecedented times, it’s imperative to have new stuff rattling around your brainbox—preferably new stuff that excites you and which you can share and discuss with others.

The Passengers, by John Marrs, is the novel that started it all.

This ridiculous cover hides a terrific story.

It’s set in England, in the near future, when self-driving cars have become mandatory.  Your five-year-old child or your ninety-year-old blind grandmother can travel both in safety and solitude.

Until.

Until eight cars are hacked and held hostage, taken under the malevolent control of a mysterious mastermind, and every second of their terror is live-streamed to the world.  On almost every page is a revelation that will make your jaw drop.

The Kid finished it in one sitting, and we still talk about it.

So, I started making recommendations.

Another one we loved was, No Exit, by Taylor Adams.  It’s the story of a group of travelers snowed in overnight at a mountain rest stop.  But, one of them is a psychopath.  It’s a cat and mouse game where they have no idea who the cat is, what he’s done, or what he’s capable of.

The Night Before, by Wendy Walker, is a race against time as a fragile woman goes on an internet date, and doesn’t return.  Her sister works backward to find her, along the way discovering secrets about her husband and her own life.

Currently, it’s I’m very excited to be reading The Splendid and the Vile, not a thriller, but new nonfiction by the king of meticulously researched, eminently readable nonfiction; Erik Larson, author of Devil In The White City.

This one’s a year in the life of Winston Churchill and his inner circle beginning on the day he was named Prime Minister.  During this time, the Nazis conducted the blitz on London, raining down an astronomical 30,000 bombs, and killing 40,000 citizens.

Now, like then, we all need diversion.  So pick up a book and take a mental trip.

Might I recommend a girl named Trixie Belden?

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.