BE AFRAID.

Kooky weather? Global Warming? Frauds! (Don’t really mean that. Just trying to make a point.)

Seven billion people packed on Mother Earth, forced to share resources?  No Big Deal.  (Ditto.)

Wars overseas, banks run amok, Greek debt, an economy tanked, unemployment sky-high, and not a leader in sight to guide us out of this mess?  Child’s play! (Double ditto.)

Citizens, we have a much more pressing crisis; one that threatens not only our national security, but the very existence of planet earth. 

Laundry.

Yes.  You read that correctly.  L-A-U-N-D-R-Y.

Filthy, foul smelling, and propagator of mold, laundry is replicating at an alarming rate. In just one home in WNY, it has occupied an entire downstairs room, and is invading whole sections of closets, stairwells and floors upstairs.  

A cunning foe. Stain-stuck, washed, softened, dried, then tossed in a basket, laundry can remain sedentary for months; resisting all attempts at being folded or tucked in drawers.

Refuses negotiation. Clinging to its basket like aliens to a home ship, laundry has shunned the always-willing-to-help hands of children and husbands- allowing contact only with mom or wife.

Unresponsive to torture. Laundry has been ignored on carpets and floors- stepped on, kicked, dragged, then hauled back to its special room, where it is flung onto another proliferating pile of laundry.  

It simply cannot be terminated.

Wreaking havoc on America’s overburdened  health-care system, laundry causes an untold number of work related injuries-from back pain to pruny fingers. Mental health care costs have increased a thousand-fold, with reports of domestic disturbances including uncontrollable weeping, exorcist-like shouts of ‘separate the colors!' and hallucinations depicting piles of laundry growing to beanstalk height. In families where children play outdoor sports year-round, laundry’s amoeba-like replication rates have led to a 558%  increase in the use of Xanax. A 47 year old woman, missing for months, was recently discovered beneath three hampers and a mound of whites and colors. Suffocated, her rigor-mortisized fingers were still clutching a near-empty bottle of Zout.

Hilary and Leon, forget about Terrorists and the Middle East. Focus on the War on Laundry.

NASA, you have time on your hands. Build a stink-resistant vessel that can transport all laundry to Pluto: that poor, tiny X-planet could use some attention.  

Do-Nothing Congress, do some laundry. Perhaps then we’ll get a Congressional Inquiry into this national nightmare.

President Obama, give us back our homes. Our sanity. Issue a Presidential Directive ordering that Laundry-Care become our top National Priority.

Surely, it's the cause of kooky weather, global warming, and all things evil.  

On a daily basis, laundry threatens to destroy the existence of one sane, healthy and happy individual.  

Imagine what it might do to seven billion people.

QUING HEREBY DECREES:   Laundry, be GONE!

DEAR PRECIOUS

I ought not to be writing this, because I hardly know you.  In fact, I had no idea who you were until your face- perfect, reverent, dazed in that I-just-married-the-man-of-my-dreams sort of way stared out at me from every grocery check-out line 72+ days ago. I assumed you were a princess from some foreign land or the twenty-something third wife of a bailed-out US Bank executive.

My kids knew your name.
“She makes money for being famous, Mom.”
“Famous for what?”
“Famous for being famous.”
“But what does she do?”
“Nothing.”
“Where did she come from?”
“Her Dad saved OJ.”
“Wrong,” little brother argued. “Her dad ran the Olympics.”

My kids know about you.  And now that I cannot drive my car, turn on my computer, or listen to the news without hearing your name, I need to know about you, too. Your website says you get 40 million hits a month, which means a whole lot of people listen to you, emulate you, and are influenced by you. That makes your thoughts, words, and actions significant.  

But who are you?

Your bio says you “grew up with an almost fairy-tale childhood.”

News reports say that you sold the rights to your wedding for $17.9 million dollars. Did you really make $10,358.80 pmh- per marriage hour?  Who sells the rights to their wedding? Who gets paid for being married?

Fans say they are devastated that your marriage is over, and they can no longer watch you and your handsome athlete play house, argue, make-up, make dinner, pay the bills- or invest your astonishing pmh earnings.

You say: “I’m a hopeless romantic! I love with all of my heart and soul. I want a family and babies and a real life so badly that maybe I rushed in to something too soon…It just didn’t turn out to be the fairy tale I had so badly hoped for…”

So, that’s who you are! A Disney Princess caricature! It’s obvious that at the tender age of 31, you need guidance. So brace yourself, Precious (my fairy tale name for you.) Allow me to tell you the most important thing about life.

Life isn’t a fairy tale.

You can’t ‘play’ life for film crews, cameras and fans, and hope it becomes authentic. If you truly ‘want a family and babies and a real life so badly,’ pack up your millions, turn off the cameras and join the rest of us in reality. That’s the place where we live. We worry about paying our bills, yell at our kids, and don’t have time to put on mascara. We fight, say terrible things to the people we love, then work like hell to make it better. Sometimes, we lose our jobs. Our homes. Our self-respect. We even lose our loved ones- to illness, old age, tragic accidents, neglect- and it breaks our hearts and spirit.

You say “….I hope you respect my courage because this isn’t easy to go through.”

Rather than seeking sympathy or respect, Precious, I think you should consult a dictionary. Look up the definition of ‘courage’, and you’ll discover that divorcing a guy you chose to marry- after 72 days- won’t be listed. Courage is working at marriage and enduring heartache, loneliness, stress, fatigue, anger, resentment, boredom, illness, infidelity and a whole lot of  un-fairy tale like hardships; understanding that when two people commit to living together year after year, life is grand or it’s life. Courage is staying the course when caring for your kids, a debilitated spouse, or a child with special-needs robs your energy, passion, and ability to see a light at the end of the tunnel. Courage is getting up every morning and looking for a job so you can support your family, even though every interview ends with “Thanks, and good luck.” Courage is being your kids’ parent instead of their friend; paying attention and engaging in yet another battle when the simpler response is to acquiesce. Courage is holding a hand when the diagnosis is ‘cancer’, and holding a head in your hands when the curls you loved so much are gone. Courage is juggling way too many balls in the air: giving your best effort day after day, learning from ups and downs, and cherishing those precious, fleeting moments where joy and laughter grace reality.                   

You say “…my dad always told me to follow my heart and I believe now that I really am.”

Well, now you have my sympathy, Precious.  

Someone should have told you to grow up.

QUING HEREBY DECREES:  Henceforth, rather than celebrating fame, we will celebrate COURAGE.

ICY WAND

Winter awaits.

Chili simmers.  Marshmallows- purchased for summertime s’mores- float in steamy hot chocolate. Harnessed fire hisses and pops in the hearth, demanding supervision. The scents of smoky wood and pine, and sturdy storm windows dismiss the fragrance of fresh breeze from our home.

Soon snowflakes, poured in bulk, will hush our town. Trailblazing tots will crunch, climb, and slide across glittering hills. A lone, tardy goose will contrail the enormous, blue-ice sky, imploring: “Wait!” Honk. “Wait for me!”

I love winter.

But I dread the first frost.

Morning of mourning. I awaken and discover the shellacking of my gorgeous gardens. Herbs, flowers, shrubs stoop to earth- stunned, shriveled, stricken by nature’s Icy Wand.

“Avada Kedavra!”

My treasured friends have disappeared overnight. Joy, color, fragrance, cheer- snatched by Icy Wand. Surely he snickered in the darkness as he crisscrossed my earth, leaving life blackened and stilled.

Begonias, cosmos, dahlias, daisies. I greeted them each morning- sipped coffee, guarded swimmers, read and wrote by their side. Petunias, pansies, geraniums, marigolds.  I tended to their needs- watered, fertilized, and pruned.  Hydrangeas, zinnias, roses, lilies.  I gathered them into my home, shared them with neighbors, featured them at every celebration. Clematis, fern, snapdragons, mums. Treasured friends, all.  

I loved them. They listened to my stories. Swayed at my jokes. Pricked at prowlers. Convinced bee and butterfly to hum harmony to my melody.

Rain, sun, cloud, fog.  My friends never failed to support and delight.

Until this morning of mourning. I awaken and find I have been robbed by Icy Wand. 

Not fair.  Not right. Don’t remind me of the cycle of the seasons, spring, and rebirth. 

Left alone, I will look after my orchids, philodendron, and poinsettias. And when Spring Awaits, I’ll look forward to the return of my treasured friends.

I wish they never had to leave.  

 


QUING HEREBY DECREES:  Flowers on the table.  Fresh herbs in the kitchen.  Buds and blossoms in our presence, all year long. 

HALLOWEEN CANDY

I know that I am supposed to buy it on Halloween morning.

It will be on store shelves, waiting to be purchased.

It will not be in my cupboard.  Waiting to be eaten. 

Fie!  A pox on you, gods of retail!  Needing space for jingle bells and candy canes, you put it on sale. Two weeks before Halloween.

I brought it home and tucked it as far back as my cupboard would allow. Stuffed it behind the Wholesome Health Quartet: Wheat Germ, Flax Seeds, Cream of Wheat and Mother’s Oats- just to be safe. 

The WHQ, a fixture of that cupboard, has never called out to me.

But Halloween Candy did. It sweet-talked, sang, cried, cajoled. “I am here! I am delicious! You love me! GET ME OUT OF HERE!”

I waited. One whole day. Then I opened the cupboard and moved the WHQ aside.

“I’ll only eat one piece,” I promised. “One tiny, little bar.”  Bite size.

And four red foreign fish. They are smaller than our goldfish, after all.    

And one Reese’s Cup. Protein in peanut butter balances carbs in chocolate and sugar. That  combo from heaven is good for me, after all.  

I paused before tearing open packages. “Eat one of those fresh picked apples in the fruit bowl. Much better idea,” I told myself.  “Nonsense!” I countered. “That shiny apple is the reason I stand here staring down this candy-orchard cupboard!”

Desperate, I handed the goods to my ‘chocolate-has-no-control-over-me’ husband- asking him to hide it for (from?) me. I waited. One whole day. Then I wanted it back.

Husband refused to say where I could find the stash. I begged, pleaded, dreamt of his hiding place, searched for his hiding place, baked pan after pan of brownies- to pack with school lunches. Brownie batter is not Halloween Candy, after all.

Today, I will fill a jack o’lantern bowl with treats, from candy bags that I will not have to tear open. I will worry that I don’t have enough for trick-or-treaters, and I will vow to do better next year. Then moments after bedtime, all by myself, I will sort through four pillowcases bulging with Halloween candy.  

Each pack of chewy fish, and every bite size bar of chocolate must be deemed  ‘safe to eat’, after all! 

QUING HEREBY DECREES:  The consumption of candy on Halloween is henceforth guilt free!