The other night, around 10:00, my son, Sam, needed to film his final school project. With a completed script in his mind, the three friends-based production crew included: Sam – director/actor, John – cameraman/actor and Tony – props supervisor/actor. They headed to their nearby location in our typical suburban area, so I was not the least bit worried. Imagine my surprise when, hours later, they bolted into the house.

“Mom! You are not going to believe what happened,” Sam puffed out. John and Tony were standing beside him.

Apparently, while they were filming, a police helicopter flew overhead with a bright searchlight flooding the area. This went on long enough to force them to stop. In our area, whenever we see a helicopter, it’s usually a bear sighting, which has become commonplace.

Eventually, the helicopter flew away. Then, a few minutes later, a police car turned onto their street and, upon spotting them, immediately sped up, and stopped only a few feet from their feet. The boys froze. One patrol car soon multiplied into six.

“We knew this was not good,” Sam said, adding commentary to the story.

The first officer approached the three boys huddled together and asked what they were doing there at that hour. Innocently, Sam told him that they were making an independent film and needed the city lights.

Really? Spielberg? Jaws? Dunnnn Dunnnn Dunnnn Dunnnn.

Or did they suspect them of being the legendary SNL Land Shark last seen in 1975?

The officer asked for their IDs.

“You showed them your real one, not the fake one, right?” I butted in, which was received with an eye roll.

Tony, who lived the farthest away was questioned. “What brings you way out here?”

“I’m helping Sam. We go to school together.”

At the same time, the other officers were looking through Sam’s car. At this point, my heart was racing as to what they might find in it.

The officers completed their due diligence. I’m grateful the officers were thorough.

“There was a burglary in a house around the corner about an hour ago,” they explained.

“That’s why the helicopters,” Sam said.

The officer nodded and asked if they had seen any suspicious activity.

“No,” Sam answered, at which point, they were told to leave the area.

Right about then, my other son, Jack, walked into our kitchen, just in time to hear the end of their fish story. With a wry grin, Jack said, “So you pulled off the perfect crime. I’m sure no one would suspect you, well, not if you were wearing that,” he said pointing to Tony.

I was thinking the same thing. Sam and John were dressed like normal twenty-year-old guys. But Tony was in a full-body, bright blue shark suit with an opening just large enough for his face to peek through.

“So, they were interrogating a shark?” I questioned.

“Yes.”

“Did they pat you down or ask you to take the shark head off?”

“Yes, but it’s all one piece, and I was just wearing underwear,” Tony said.

“That’s a whale of a tale! I’m sure the officers thought they had caught something all right. Lucky for you, they decided to throw it back! The perfect crime indeed.” I stopped, “Did you guys hear that? A knock at the door?”

The boys exchanged glances and nods.

“Who’s there?” I called out.

A strange, muffled voice answered, “Candy-gram.” It paused then, “Plumber.”

I gasped.

Dunnnn Dunnnn Dunnnn Dunnnn

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Thrifting, or repurposing, as it is called these days, is one of the activities I love to do with my kids. We’ve been all over the city, popping into Goodwill, thrift stores, and women’s club bazaars in search of hidden treasures at a bargain price.

I’ve found Levi 501 jeans for $10 and cashmere sweaters for $20. I’m driven by the idea of finding a Picasso for $100, when the owners don’t know what they have. I recently read of a girl buying a vase for $2 that turned out to be valued at $10,000.

We wanted one last adventure before Lindsay returned to college, starting with a store in Los Angeles we had yet to visit. Once through the door, we split up: literature for me, clothes for her.

After the books, I cruised over to the vinyl bin. My heart skipped a beat. The Jenga stack of books I was juggling tumbled to the carpet. I reached for the 1960s Broadway edition of South Pacific, performed by the original Broadway cast. My Aunt Margie was in that cast; she played Ensign Connie Walewska. I tucked it under my arm.

“Mom! Mom! Come here!” Lindsay had that tone in her voice that said that she, too, had found something. Really? How could it compete with my late aunt’s voice on a Broadway recording?

I couldn’t believe she showed me a giant, bulbous, blood-red, brandy-like snifter.

“What about it?” I asked. “Do you want it?” I hoped not.

“Mom, this is a real treasure.”

She captured my attention. “It is?”

She rapidly scrolled through images on her phone, “I think it’s a 1960s Italian red glass Empoli vase.”

I was impressed she even knew what an Empoli vase was.

“Here’s one for sale for $600.” She showed me a photo that looked identical to the one in her hand. “This one is costs only $40.”

We exchanged looks, our eyes growing larger by the minute. This was it!

“Get in the car,” I instructed, scooping up my books, album, and now an Empoli vase, and hurried to the check-out register.

I handed him cash, then dashed out to the waiting getaway car. I drove while Lindsay continued her research.

“Mom, I think I made a mistake.” Her excited chatter grew quiet, “The real ones have an Italian stamp.” Over and over, she rotated the big red vase. “There’s no stamp.”

“Well, that’s okay,” I said out loud, suppressing, You have got to be kidding me. What will we do with this oversized red brandy snifter that cost me forty bucks?

“I saw another one for $120 on eBay.”

Ah, that reputable online mercantile. “Let’s put this one on for $60 and see if you get any bites. If we can’t pay for your college, at least we can unload it.”

By the time we rolled into our driveway, we had a buyer.

I dug in the garage for a shipping box while she negotiated.

“Mom, the buyer asked if we could include a $500 eBay gift card. He’ll pay us back.”

I tossed the empty box aside. Scam.

“Looks like we have a new bowl for the car keys.”

We rested our new priceless vase on the piano and listened to my Aunt Margie sing, “I’m going to wash that man right out of my hair and send him on his way.”

Now, there’s a priceless treasure.

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I was hitting 2024 with an all-new resolve. I’m not doing a dry January though, that’s just crazy talk. But I did want to get back into a healthy exercise routine, so a trip to the gym was in order. 

Let’s review. I couldn’t wear the old sweats I’d worn for months. After a quick trip to Lululemon and new gym shoes, I found my earphones and loaded up audiobooks, and I was ready. I confess earbuds fall out of my ears. 

“I’m back,” I cheerfully said to the desk clerk. 

“Welcome back,” he said, underwhelmed. He held up the scanner and looked at me with beckoning eyes. I returned the stare. “Your app?” he asked.

I replied, “Do you want my phone number?” 

Where do I begin? I saw row after row of stationary bikes, followed by rows of treadmills. Standing alone, I was getting jostled by the more dedicated enthusiasts. 

The treadmill seemed the least intimidating. I can walk, walk fast, and even run in place. Looking at the control panel in front of me, I felt like I needed a rocket scientist to help me get it started. I pressed the large green button, and the tread beneath my feet suddenly moved like an airport people mover. Quickly, I found myself on a fast-paced walk. I plugged one end of my earphones into my phone, the other into me, and started my motivational audiobook.

With my confidence rising, I gained more speed. I was going at a pretty good clip and repurposed gym air filled my lungs. I could go faster; why not? I glanced at my reflection in the windows. I looked cute. I was in the front row of machines, with throngs of people behind me. 

I reached across to adjust the volume on my phone. All the thumping of my new heavy running shoes on this oversized rubber band made it difficult to hear. 

“AAAHHH!” My arm caught the earphone cord, sending my phone flying while still attached to my ears. I lunged to catch it, but the phone banged against the side of the machine until breaking loose and landing in the walkway. Where were all those fanatics now that I needed them to hand my phone back to me?

How do I stop this thing? Using what little upper body strength I have, I hoisted myself up on the hand bars, releasing my feet in the hopes it would stop. That was a bad idea. When I lowered myself back down, I caught my rubbered-toed shoes on the running rubber band.

I flipped and went flying. My butt landed on the tread, with my feet planted on the tile floor. I looked like an inverted beetle. Thud. Thud. Thud. Back-pedaling, I tried to right myself by placing my palms on the fast-moving treadmill. All that managed to do was catapult all of me onto the tile floor. I hoped no one was watching this Lululemon-clad mother of three spread eagle on the dirty tile floor that was covered in sweat and other bodily fluids, and doused with Pine Sol like a bad perfume.

I slid over and grabbed my phone, hopped to my feet in an I-meant-to-do-that motion, turned, mounted the machine, and resumed at the full running pace as if nothing had happened. 

When the workout cycle ended, this hamster-on-a-wheel dismounted. Tomorrow, I’ll return to my sweats and neighborhood streets resolving to do a less aggressive routine.

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I’m not a good camper. It feels like a lot of work and dirt to play Pioneer Days.

For years, a group of my friends have gone to a favorite mountain camping spot. Not only are they my closest friends, but they are the closest thing to professional survivalists I’ve ever seen. They’re trained professionals with all the gadgets and gismos right down to a solar-heated shower.

Although, I am envious when I see their photos of hiking, feasts, singing, laughing, and chatting around the campfire. At the same time, I’m relieved, not to be there.

But when my son, Sam, asked if we could go this year, I decided it was time to give it a try.

I borrowed a tent and a sleeping bag. I tossed my Louis Vuitton duffle bag in the trunk, my Jack Russell Terrier, Socrates, in the back seat, and Sam in the front, and we were off to the wilderness.

For our contribution, I made tortilla soup. In hindsight, I’m not sure a bean-driven soup was the best idea for a meal at a location without indoor plumbing.

I was ready to spend quality time with Sam while I set up this large tent. Sam had other ideas. He set up an even larger tent, then blew up a mattress.

“Did yours come with turndown and maid service?” I asked.

The first night was everything the past propaganda pictures had promised. Warmed by the fire and shots of whisky, we all sat around the campfire and sang songs. By midnight, I was curled up in my sleeping bag, looking up at the stars through the opened mesh.

Two o’clock in the morning, I was awakened by a loud rumble. The heavens opened up, and rain poured inside my tent.

“Move over,” I pushed Socrates. My backside was soaked while he snored comfortably inside the sleeping bag.

A fine layer of grit and grim added another layer to my sunblock-coated skin. I yearned for a Clorox wipe.

The next morning, the smell of last night’s campfire lingered in the air. Socrates mingled with the other canines. Still in my damp clothes I plopped down and slugged a cup o’ joe. I was clueless about the condition of my hair, how I smelled, or what was in my teeth for

that matter. There I was the oddball friend begging to borrow everything from a cup to a fork because it never dawned on me to bring utensils.

Conversely, my friends looked refreshed in their darling outfits, ready to go into town for lunch. As did Sam when he emerged well rested from his dry tent.

Suddenly, Socrates shot out from the bushes, leading the pack of domesticated dogs, with a furry treasure firmly clentched in his jaws.

“Drop it!” I shouted to no avail.

Socrates stared, proudly displaying the baby squirrel dangling from either side of his mouth. Game on! Socrates darted around the food tables, forcing everyone to jump onto the tabletops.

I grabbed him through the plumes of dust he had kicked up and shook him upside down and right side up. I used a small stick in attempting to pry open his mouth but his jaws clenched so tightly that he broke the stick. Sam held his body while I jimmied his jaw open. He flung the squirrel’s guts that stuck to my sticky skin like flies on fly paper.

“Anyone wants squirrel for breakfast? Its good eatin’.” I joked.

No takers.

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How did coffee beans spill on the floor? Upon closer examination, it wasn’t coffee at all. Over the past weeks I found bits of avocados nibbled away, while at night they scurried in my attic. RATS!

It all made sense. The vacant house across the street was cleaned out to be sold. Its current furry occupants decided to take up new residence in my house.

I was flooded with images from my kids’ favorite animated movie Ratatouille, where the woman’s house falls apart under the weight of a thousand rats living in her walls. 

I live with a Jack Russell terrier, a breed known for its highly rated ratting abilities, ironically named SocRATes. Even though he caught many rats, we couldn’t keep up with the incoming intruders.

And yet, my prayers seemingly answered, when a man showed up soliciting a pest control service, I politely declined. I didn’t like the poison. 

I left my house to take Socrates out for a walk. When I returned home, I was a gasp!  A rat was eating a banana on my kitchen counter! That was it! 

Running out my front door, I screamed, “COME, BAAAAAACK!!! Sweet angel of death.”

On the spot, I signed up for their services. “Do what you will to win this war,” I declared.

The rat exterminator set the black box bait traps, one in the front and one in the back, assuring me, that there was no threat to my pets.

“Rats are my kryptonite,” I confessed to him.

“Me too,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. 

“Occupational hazard I guess.”

That night, there was a loud rumble in the bushes. Socrates may not have great at catching live rats, but this MacGyver of terriers unlocked that bait box with the precision of a jewel thief.

I rushed Socrates to the emergency pet hospital.

“My dog has ingested rat poison!” I barked.

The nurse looked horrified, “No! Where did he get it?”

Sheepishly, I confessed, “I was desperate. The rats were everywhere. The guy came to my door. It was a sign.”

“Is your dog eating?” the nurse armed with a clipboard glared.

“No, I’ve tried anything to get him to eat.”

“Did you give him chicken?”

“No. Bacon.”

“Bacon flavoring?”

“No, real bacon. Bacon makes everything better.”

“Let’s try this organic dog treat.” She reached into a jar then handed Socrates a tiny bone. He wolfed it down. My heart skipped a beat.

As soon as she left us alone, I scurried over to that jar and grabbed a handful. “Here.”  

Seconds later the nurse returned, “Did you give him more treats?”

How did she know? I looked for hidden cameras.

At this point, I was worried she would call protective dog services on me.

For the next few weeks, Socrates and I made multiple trips back for shots. It didn’t take long for my clever dog to catch on. 

Each time I had to drag Socrates, butt down, wearing the cone of shame across the pet hospital waiting area floor.

He threw his head back and howled, “Nooooo. I’m not going in there! You poke me!”

Alerted, the dogs seated in the waiting room suddenly scrambled for the exit door, dragging their owners behind them.

Finally, this ordeal ended with Socrates receiving a clean bill of health. And the rats? They opened a lovely French restaurant on the other side of town.

The moral of the story: Don’t name your dog after your kryptonite

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I take my dogs for a walk around my neighborhood every evening around five. Almost every time, I see a woman working in her front garden. 

“Beautiful garden,” I say.

“Thank you, comin’ along,” she replies.

I noticed the house was run down and recently had outdoor ramps installed, which led me to believe an older person was living there. 

On this night, she wasn’t in her garden but instead out walking a dog. All the dogs exploded viciously, barking as if to say, “You! Get off my street!” 

“It’s my street. You get off! Grrrr!” 

“Sorry,” I shouted over them.

“It’s okay,” she shouted back, “I’m fostering her. Barks at everything. Are you worried about the coyotes?”

Wild coyotes have created quite a stir by eating rats, wild rabbits, and now pets.

“Yes,” I replied.

She continued shouting, even though the dogs had stopped barking, and then caught herself. “I’m Mary. I’ve moved here to take care of my father. He’s 96.”

“Does he have all his marbles?” A commonly asked question.

“Yes, but he needs help. I live in Switzerland. I’m afraid to return home because I’d be so far away if something happened. I grew up in this house.”

“Wow, me too. I live up the street.”

Wait a minute, I thought, as did she, “We’re about the same age. Do you remember Joni Smalls?” Mary asked me.

I allowed the marble inside my head to roll around while jogging my memory. “Holy cow! Yes. I haven’t thought about her in years.”

Mary proceeded. “I remember she always wore pink. She was very nice, and so was her mom, but her dad was mean. They once asked me to stay for dinner, and when I agreed, he grumbled and said, ‘Why are we feeding another month?’ Can you believe that?”

“Yeah, he was kinda grumpy.” 

“Did you know the Monroe boys at the top? They were super smart, and John was so cute. Their clothes were dirty like their mom never did laundry. They went to Poly on a full scholarship.”

“I guess so,” I said.

“I did. True, it’s a big house. What about Sandra?” I asked.

“We went to school together, and she always got straight ‘As’ and would rub my nose in it. My dad would say, ‘Why can’t you be more like Sandra?’ I just found out her husband had an affair and had a child out of it. Now this all “Cs” girl is looking pretty good.”

We laughed.

The more she spoke, the more I tried to bring young Mary back into focus. Suddenly a light went on.

“Remember that vacant lot?” Mary said, “This girl lived across the street from that lot. I went to her house one day, and she had a brand-new bed spread that was yellow with daisies, and she told me not to sit on it and get it dirty because her mom had just bought it for her. Her name was Leslie. After that, I didn’t want to play with her.”

Aha! Now, I remembered little snotty Mary—that girl who gossiped about everybody. Here I was stuck in a conversation with her decades later. However, I didn’t remember that yellow bedspread with daisies.

There was an awkward pause while older Leslie and Mary stared at each other.

“Well. You have a nice day.” Mary and her dog briskly walked away.

“You too.” 

I went in the opposite direction.

Live with Waffletude.

I decided this was going to be personal health month, starting with getting all those uncomfortable check-ups checked off my list. I used the pandemic as an excuse, but the truth of the matter was I didn’t like going to the doctor. 

My first wellness “procedure” required using propofol as a mild sedative to put me in a twilight state. Immediately, it conjured up horrible memories of Michael Jackson, which prompted me to ask the very efficient nurse, “You are going to remember to wake me up, right?”

She looked at me as if to say, “If had a dime for every time someone asked me that question, I could retire.” Then she actually said, “Trust me, you will have a lovely nap, and yes, you’ll wake up. You won’t feel a thing.”

Ominous and reassuring all at the same time. Ultimately, the nurse was correct, except I had a hangover. I felt loopy.

While I was having my experience, my son, Sam, was making the eleven-hour drive home from college all alone. Before he left his college campus, he sent me a picture of his overpacked Pathfinder. The interior of his car was jammed so tightly it couldn’t have held a paper map. His three mountain bikes were strapped to the rack on the back. It looked like the truck from the Beverly Hillbillies; at the very least, it should have had a sign attached that read California or Bust.

While I waited for Sam’s safe arrival home, I could hardly keep my eyes open. I needed to stay awake since this was the same kid that totaled the car last year. As the hours ticked by, I lost my battle and eventually went upstairs to my bed, instantly falling into a deep sleep, like a low-grade coma. 

“Mom. Mom. Mom, wake up.”

“What, Sam?” I mumbled, not remembering he had been away.

“There’s a spider in my room. I’m sure it’s a black widow.”

Spiders are Sam’s kryptonite. Ironic since this kid dangles from a rope off the side of a mountain fifty feet up in the air. 

“Fine. Come sleep in the big bed,” I said my habitual response.

“Are you sure?” He was too tired from his trip to reason with me.

I couldn’t understand his hesitation; it’s not like he hasn’t hopped in the big bed before whenever he’s been scared, usually coming in with his blanket. Over the years all my kids found a sanctuary there. The thing I wasn’t grasping at that moment was that he wasn’t five years old anymore. 

The following day when I woke up, “AAAAHHHH!” I screamed in horror. There was a grown man sprawled out in my bed! At least six feet tall, facial hair, and a tattoo! A mountain man! The only thing I recognized was his blonde curls.

“Mom! Why are you yelling at me?” Sam rolled over in dismay. 

Once I got my faculties back, I looked at him, my baby boy. He was still wearing the same clothes he had on when he left Colorado twenty-four hours ago. Like Gulliver, he had grown too big to fit in the big bed.

I can’t quite figure out where that time went, but I know he will always be my little boy who is afraid of spiders.

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