So Much Depends Upon Wheelbarrows and Timing

A minute after I entered the freeway it happened - the red wheelbarrow soared from the bed of the pickup truck in front of me, and bounced to a stop. Up until the moment the wheelbarrow became airborne I’d been on autopilot, fighting the stupor induced by a four-hour Indesign class and wondering if the kids had made themselves lunch.

It took a split second for my brain to register that the large object in front of me was solid and ought to be avoided. It took another split second for me to slam on the brakes and hope the driver behind me wasn’t texting or reaching for his frappachino. Another fraction of a second to realize I couldn’t stop in time, and to glance in the side view mirror and hope no one was in my blind spot when I swerved.

Minutes before, I’d been chatting with a classmate about the design exercise we’d just completed. We compared thoughts on how clumsy it felt to be wrestling with programs so new and foreign, with things like control panels and smart guides.

“Hopefully it’s like driving,” I said. “Eventually we’ll be able to do all this by reflex.”

Precisely because I stayed after class to have this conversation about complicated rules and reflexes, I arrived on the freeway at the exact moment the wheelbarrow took flight. It was as if I’d just ordered up a test to prove I actually had driving reflexes.

If I’d entered the freeway an instant sooner, the wheelbarrow might have landed in the front seat with me. An instant later and the guy behind me might have redesigned my bumper, frappachino or no frappachino.

Earlier that same morning when I’d left for class, the brake light on my dashboard flashed on. I was already late and thought about dismissing the brake situation until later. Instead I decided not to take a chance, and submitted to doubling back home to add brake fluid.

Some days just work out like that.

Brush With Nature

If you’re the mother of a teenage girl, sometimes the closest you get to observing wildlife in its natural habitat is strolling around the mall. This week the weather is so inviting, my daughter suggests a hike.

We pick a trail in a canyon along the San Diego River. Rainy days and warm weather have urged wildflowers and critters out of hiding, too. I follow my daughter and dog Luna, stopping here and there to enjoy green mountains dotted with purple and orange. Next to us, water striders skim along the top of the water. Lizards spring out of nowhere, stop to flex their muscles with a push-up or two, and then wriggle up piles of rocks.

We pause at the top of a hill and enjoy the burble of the stream. “What’s that on Luna’s back?” my daughter asks. “Is that a tick?”

My daughter has seen one tick in her life, at my parents’ house in New York. I haven’t seen one here in twenty years. “I doubt it,” I say, not bothering to look. “It’s just a spider. Flick it off.”

She nudges it with the leash.

“Not like that,” I tell her. “Now it’s probably on the leash. Brush it off.”

She cracks the leash like a whip.

“Ouch!” I protest.

“Oh, sorry,” she says. “I wanted to be sure I got it off.”

I rub the sore spot on my thigh as we walk on. The trail narrows as we get further into the canyon; shrubs reach out across the dirt path. We pass through a long patch of shrubbery and stop to enjoy the view.

“There’s another one of those things,” my daughter says, pointing to a spot on Luna’s back.This time I bend down to get a look.

“Ew!” I hop back, suddenly remembering why I prefer hiking on wide open trails. “It is a tick!” I flick the offending creature into the grass. We both shudder and leap around, doing the I-feel-like -I’m-crawling-with-bugs dance. Luna tips up her nose and sniffs the air.

We glance around. We’re deep into the canyon now. Besides that, we’ve taken a trail that doesn’t loop around like some other trails in the park. To return, we have no choice but to reenter the tick-infested thicket. My daughter bites her lower lip. We stare at each other and read each other’s thoughts: how ‘bout we just stand here indefinitely? No chance we can get airlifted out of a canyon just because ticks freak us out.

Resigned, we pick our way gingerly back through the woods. With stomachs sucked we sidle through the brush, trying not to scrape against any leaves. At every clearing we pause to inspect ourselves.

“I’d rather get poison oak,” I say as we march on.

“Me too,” my daughter agrees, trailing behind me with Luna. “I’d rather scratch for a week than have a tick on me for one second.”

“I’d rather spot a mountain lion.”

“Yeah, me too. At least they’re not gross and they don’t stick in your hair.”

“Or a snake,” I say.

“Oh, a snake, sure. You see those in the pet store.”

“No kidding.” I pick a leaf from my shirt. “I’d much rather…whoa!” I dig in my heels. My daughter and Luna plow into my backside.

“What are you doing?” my daughter protests.

“Snake.” I say.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, really.”

“Where?”

“Right there! I almost stepped on it.” We watch the snake slip past us into the grass.

“Uh-oh.”

“No, it’s okay.” I say. “I think it’s a friendly snake.”

“No, never mind the snake.”

“What, then?”

“We better take back the part about the mountain lion.”

“Oh, right. Good point.” I say. And in case the spirits of the trails were still listening, I state firmly, “We were only KIDDING about the MOUNTAIN LION.”

I see a group of hikers approaching. An enthusiastic puppy scrambles beside them, a husky with big blue eyes and a coat like a feather duster.

“Watch out for ticks,” I offer as they pass by. “Don’t let her get into the tall grass.”

As soon as they pass, I start laughing.

“What’s so funny?” my daughter asks.

“I forgot to mention the snake.”

“Oh, great, Mom. They’ll yell, ‘Hey, why didn’t you warn us about that snake over here?’ and you’ll be like, ‘Yeah, yeah…snake, whatever. Didn’t you hear me? There are ticks out here. Ticks! TICKS, I say!’”

By the time we reach the car, another tick had already burrowed into Luna’s back leg. As I open the car door to let the dog and her nasty little hitchhiker into the back seat, I turn to meet my daughter’s disgusted look.

“Well then. Next time, the mall?”

Tummy = Too Chummy

My husband is the type of person who always has to strike up a conversation. He‘s got a cheery comment or a joke for everyone – cashiers, bank tellers, repairmen, parking lot attendants - you name it. This mortifies our children. So it’s a good thing they weren’t with him earlier when he walked to the corner store to buy a Pepsi. I think it went like this:

Most of the employees at this store recognize us – we walk there nearly every day. This time my husband got in the line of a cashier he’s seen a couple of times but doesn’t know well. She was cute and young, and sporting a big pregnant belly behind her checkstand.

He gave his usual enthusiastic greeting, after which the young cashier squealed, “Ooh! My baby just kicked! Do you want to feel it?”

My husband, who doesn’t always think before he acts, said, “Sure!” and reached over to grab her big Pooh-bear belly.

One second…two seconds passed. Nothing happened.

Three seconds…four seconds…

That baby was not going to budge. I believe this was the baby’s silent protest against any future embarrassment from his mother.

Five…six seconds. My husband stared at the ceiling, now keenly aware of standing in a public place with his hands on some strange woman’s belly. Seven…eight. The cashier stared in the direction of her feet, though she couldn’t possibly have seen them. Nine…ten…

My husband finally relinquished his grip and pulled his hands safely into his own personal space.

“Gee...that was weird,” he said.

“Um, yeah, that was awkward,” the cashier said, hastening to finish the transaction. My husband grabbed the Pepsi and headed for the exit.

Do you suppose he found a lesson in there somewhere? Nah...probably not.


**In more pertinent news, next week Rena Jones is having a blog tour to introduce her brand new picture book, A New Job for Dilly. Check my sidebar for the tour schedule, and plan to enter to win a copy! Visit Rena’s blog for more info.

Spa Treatments Do Not Include Whoopie Cushions

I thought it was time to cash in a gift certificate for a pedicure. One that I thought I got for Christmas, but have actually had since my birthday last June. Definitely time for some pampering.

For me the real treat of a spa pedicure is the chair. That heavenly massage chair. The toe painting is nice, too – I actually had a party to go to and there was a color theme for the attire, so I wanted gold toes. But mostly I wanted the fancy chair.

I chose my gold paint. The pedicurist dunked my feet. I turned on the chair.

The little rollers started working their magic on the small of my back. About halfway up my back, the chair said, “Bzzzrt!”

“Yikes,” I said. “Noisy chair.” The pedicurist gave me a confused look.

“That, um… buzzing sound,” I said. The woman sitting at my feet knit her brows and pointed to one of the manicurists, who was busy buffing someone’s nails with that thing that looks like a dental drill.

“No, behind me. The chair made a noise,” I said. The chair was silent. The woman shrugged and went back to sanding my feet. I tried to relax.

“Pfffft…pffft!” said the chair. This isn’t sounding good, I thought. Maybe there was too much pressure on those tired old rollers. I started shifting my weight in the chair and then thought better of it. Maybe people would think I was the one making that awful noise, and trying to cover for it.

I felt a case of the giggles coming on. “Brrpppt, brrrpppt!” said the chair. I bit my lip. It was like lounging on a yak that got into a bad patch of grass. There were only five people in the shop. Surely everyone could hear it. No one looked up.

“Pllllt…plllt…pffffft…pffffft…blaarrrrrrrrttttt!!!!” said the chair.

I snatched the controls and jabbed at buttons. The pedicurist looked at me. “You want it off?” she asked. She gave me an understanding smile. Of course I wanted it off.

So, I’m guessing she knew the chair was defective. Why didn’t she stick me in another chair? Maybe handling people’s feet all day makes her cranky.

So much for pampering. I settled for a nice quiet foot bath, gold toes, and a good giggle.

It Was Unintentional. Really.

We went out to dinner, something we don’t get to do often as a family. We were all a bit edgy because there hadn’t really been a consensus on where to go, and not everyone was convinced. As we sipped drinks and a couple of us pushed romaine around on our plates, I glanced at the empty bread plate next to me.

“Who ate my garlic bread?” I demanded.

There was mumbling about some confusion, and then despite my objection, my husband called the waitress over.

“Could we get another piece of garlic bread?” he asked.

“Would you like a large order for the whole table?” she asked.

“No. Just another piece. I accidentally ate hers.”

As the waitress walked off looking thoroughly confused, I just had to ask. “Um, how do you accidentally eat something?”

I realized he meant he didn’t know the bread was mine and he helped himself, but I got really amused at the idea of eating something by accident.

Maybe by some quirk of fate you accidentally fell on a piece of bread with your mouth open. Or someone took you by surprise and stuffed a piece of bread into your mouth. But how would you explain chewing and swallowing repeatedly? It’s like saying I accidentally spent that $100 that was in your wallet, sandwiched between the ten dollar bill and the Costco receipt. Or I accidentally backed over the neighbor’s ugly plastic lawn ornament nineteen times.

Anyway, I’m still curious. I might accidentally eat whatever’s left in the kids’ Easter baskets, and I’m going to need a good explanation.

You'll Feel Smarter After Reading This

I was driving around yesterday with the gas light glowing on my dashboard, hoping to make it to the gas station in time (I did). It got me thinking of some recent moments that have been a little sub-stellar:

- As I backed my car out of the garage, I noticed my husband had already taken the trash cans out. They were really close to the door, so I kept an eye on them. It’d sure be embarrassing to knock one of those babies over. I kept a careful eye on those big ugly plastic trash bins. So careful, I turned and snapped the side view mirror right off the side of my car. It just dangled there on skinny little wire. On the bright side, no garbage was injured in the incident.

- We ran out of toothpaste. I dug around in the linen closet and found one of those little toothpaste samples the dentist gives out. I put it in our medicine cabinet. Later as I got ready for bed, I reached for the toothpaste, squished a dab on my brush and started brushing away. Only, I’d grabbed a tube of Benadryl cream. I can tell you it does not taste minty fresh. But at least my gums weren’t the least bit itchy all night.

- I got tired of having a different remote control for every gadget in the family room. For Christmas we got a universal remote. It has a million buttons the size of rice grains. I refuse to have my reading glasses around just for watching TV, so I tried to memorize what the buttons are for. The other night I was pressing away frantically and nothing was happening. Finally I gave up and asked my eleven year old in frustration, “What’s wrong with this thing?!”

He looked over at me. “Mom, you’re holding it backwards.”