Abstinence Based Sex Ed

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The President’s Ten Proven Methods for Pregnancy Prevention.

  1. Eliminate storks.
  2. Go through menopause.
  3. Read the Trump Bible, exclusively, just $59.99.
  4. Never wean your first baby.
  5. Keep your knees closed.
  6. Concealed carry, stand your ground.
  7. Download the Pope’s hundred best Chicago rhythm and blues tunes.
  8. Get a rhythm groove.
  9. Don’t lose your groove.
  10. When you’re late, say you’re not.

These suggestions have been curated by the president’s own human copy machine while on international jaunts with his majesty. They will be distributed through the Department of Miseducation for use in classrooms this fall.

The new curriculum will be titled Ex-say Education-nay.  

It’s Mostly Fruit Juice

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My friend discovered her ability to conjure a pina colada from a glass of milk one evening at dinner. She said, rather desperately, to her unruly kids, “Eat your vegetables.” Et voila! Like water to wine, the milk in her glass tasted of rum.

Her talent saves us bundles. We go to this Italian restaurant that’s family friendly. My friend and I order milk, the kids get soda, a special treat. We never pay more than a few dollars for a drink and the kids eat their veggies.

The waiters never catch on, maybe because we leave a generous tip.

He’s Got to Pull His Weight

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I was excited when this half-grown border collie came up the driveway, then I got worried. I told Pa, “Could be a working dog. They herd sheep.”

“We ain’t got no sheep.”

“Cows, maybe?”

“Don’t need no dog. Give him to John, he’s got sheep.”

I’d been asking for a dog since forever. “Might scare…”

The dog stuck his nose in the air. Something was rustling in the corn and out comes a big ol’ raccoon. The dog’s carrying on to beat the band and, miracle of miracles,  chases that raccoon clean away.

“Reckon he’ll do.”

I fed the dog.

Daisy O’Grady is a Witch

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I saw Daisy, my longtime friend, in the window of a bookshop on Hamilton Avenue. She was wrapped in cellophane, sitting in a large Easter basket that overflowed with children’s books. Oh, she wore clothes. What were you thinking? An explanatory sign said,  “Ask me about my favorite book.”

I was flummoxed. Daisy hasn’t read a book in years; she’s more into Tarot. If she reads to her grandchildren, she’s kept me in the dark.

I pulled a wig and a pointy hat from my capacious old lady purse. I had the perfect question for her. “Guess What? Yes or No.”

(Guess What? By Mem Fox. A fun read. Also a banned book in Florida for an “old lady in a bathtub” illustration. (But I suspect it’s because Daisy is a witch.)

More Heat, More Bugs

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A click beetle or a cockroach? It’s small. A thumbnail; less than a thumbprint. What is it doing in my house? Lost, I suppose. A wayward adolescent. It’s run away from home. It’s looking for a job. I would never hire it.

It’s reassuring to anthropomorphize this bug. I don’t want to imagine it climbing into the cupboards, eating up my pantry stock. Which brings to mind the black weevily bugs I found in the cranberry beans.

How Zen am I today? Should I start a bug circus? Get rid of all bugs for all time? Musings from an overheated brain.

A Reminder Was All It Took

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Bright lines, my husband lives by bright lines, clear rules that guide him. This is something I love about him.

I didn’t notice that an SUV had pulled alongside us and crossed the green line into the bike lane. The traffic sign was clear. The turn arrow inside a crossed out circle. No turn on red, in case they needed more to establish a bright line. They did. They had a nose in the crosswalk. They might have turned.

A firm honk from my husband; the SUV waited for the light. Like I would once I’m reminded there is a line.

Friendship

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I remember the motorcycle he rode.

I remember sneaking off with him when he was sixteen. I was fourteen, full of elaborate excuses; girlfriends who vouched for me. Wind in my face, the noise, the leather jacket and the helmet. I saved up, hid them at his house.

I remember when he told me he was gay.

I remember how cool I played it. “I wondered,” I said. I thought, what were the chances he was wrong?

I remember every unworthy person he dated. I’d ask him, “Are you sure? What do you see?”

He’d say, “You’re my best friend.”

Irresistible Impulse

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He said- You said, Yes.

She said- I said, not yet. Another time. A later time.

He said- But your eyes said yes

She said- My eyes don’t speak for me.

He said- Your eyes speak to me.

She said- Looks can deceive.

He said- So you admit it? You lied. Those gorgeous blue eyes lied?

She said- You should have known. You should have asked, clarified, not taken things at face value.

He said- Whatever. Now we have this adorable cat. 

She said- This purring cat, we’re cat parents now.

He said- I’m a sucker for gorgeous blue eyes.

A Healthy Dose of Skepticism Is What We Need.

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The ad popped up in a search. Bottled impulse control. There it was, an amazing new drug that claimed to be the cure for the closet shopaholic. Impulse control. Another way of saying, “Caveat emptor,” for those who don’t know Latin.

A pill. I was skeptical. But the hype that accompanied the pill convinced me. “Do you believe everything you hear in this world of make-believe? Then this is the pill for you. Sales resistance in a bottle. Just 20 dollars will save you hundreds in foolish purchases.”

I put it in my cart. I hovered over “Buy.” I clicked.

Free as a Dog

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The warm weather brought out the dogs. They roamed without leashes. They found each other and played, the poodles and the labs and the scrappy mutts. Their people strolled along the tree-lined streets, digging in their pockets for treats. 

A kind of amnesia had made them all forget to whom they belonged. They started fresh in a world where it’s not dog-eat-dog. Utopia. And then, the oddest thing happened. The universe snapped its fingers. The dogs and people sorted themselves out. Back to the way things were. The sense of bonhomie, a vague impression that lingered as a subliminal image.