Forty-one

September thirteenth, 2001.  The country is still shell-shocked.  An e-mail has been circulating throughout the land, urging everyone to light a candle that evening as a show of national unity.

Tonight’s dinner conversation was as follows:

Me:  “Nobody on the block has a candle lit but us.”

Grandma:  “It’s only 6:45.  The e-mail said seven.”

Grandpa:  “But in New York, it’s  7:45.  Wasn’t it eastern time?”

Grandma:  “I think it said seven o’clock wherever you are.  Otherwise, in L.A., their candles would be lit at four, and no one would be able to see them.  Plus they’d all be at work still.  It’s supposed to be at seven.”

Grandpa:  “You know this or just think it?”

“Know it.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Know or no?”

“I don’t know.”

“But seven o’clock where?”

“Wherever you are.  Wherever you are at seven o’clock, it’s seven o’clock.”

“But in new York, it’s eight o’clock.”

“That’s not the point.”

“WELL IT DOESN’T MAKE MUCH SENSE TO DO IT IF IT’S NOT ALL AT THE SAME TIME, DOES IT.”

“WHO CARES, YOU CAN’T SEE THE WHOLE COUNTRY AT ONCE ANYWAY.  IT’S A SYMBOLIC GESTURE.  ONE OUR HIPPIE NEIGHBORS APPARENTLY DON’T CARE TO TAKE PART IN.”

Grandma and Grandpa are now engaged in a staring contest. It’s six-fifty-five  and in the background, the hippie neighbors can be seen placing a candle outside.  What was supposed to be a touching gesture nearly started a fistfight in the Hubbell household.

Forty-one

Happy Halloween! I know it's actually All Saints’ Day, but yesterday was too busy to write anything.

Halloween was great, we had spectacular weather—62 degrees and a full moon. Meg was a  frothy pink princess,  Molly was a ghost wearing a pumpkin hat, Finny was a rock star.  We couldn't decide whether to do him glam rocker or grunge, so we did both: spikey hair, white t-shirt with flannel shirt over it, ripped up jeans, bandana around his head, kiss make-up. Oh, and a racquetball racquet for his guitar.  He stripped off everything but the t-shirt and jeans by house three, so I looked like the laziest mom in the universe.

I was so excited to take Meggie trick or treating for the first time, back when she was two. The first house we went to, she was given a sucker.  Naturally, like any normal small child who’s been handed a lollipop, she wanted to open it and eat it right there on the front steps.

“NO!” I shrieked, grabbing it from her.  “I have to check it first…” I looked up to see my neighbor staring at me with an odd expression, and I realized too late I basically just accused her of trying to poison my daughter. 

“I mean, I’m sure it’s fine…..of course it’s fine….” I felt my face getting hot as I gave  the sucker back to my baby.

“Thanks, Cindy, thanks…” my neighbor wordlessly shut her door, it started to rain, and we went home.  Not the most stellar inaugural trick-or-treat.

Meg actually prefers the suckers and the jolly ranchers, the bit-o-honey and candy corn. I can't relate at all. I always just pitched that crap right back at the house that gave it to me, my feeling being if it wasn't chocolate, it was a waste of everyone's time.  Might as well have been an apple.  And there was always some idiot giving out pencils or toothbrushes.  Why not just egg your own house and save me the trouble.

So. House is almost done, very excited about that. We should be moving in by Thanksgiving.

Forty-two

Last night we had an impromptu  New Year’s get together, and it was a gas. All of us, kids included, stayed up until the wee hours dancing.  I think Meg had the time of her life. And the kids are surprisingly chipper today-- Mike, however, is back in bed, and I just talked to one of our guests who was here until 1:45 a.m. with her children and husband, and she spent the remainder of the night with her head in a toilet.  Our neighbors must think we're insane. Christmas morning found our yard littered with garbage bags bursting with empty bottles, New Year's Day the same-- (we moved in a month ago! Wouldn't it be funny if we told them we do that every Monday?)  My neck hurts from dancing too hard.

Finny has composed several original tunes with the guitar he got for Christmas. My favorite one is called, "I was never nice to you but we became friends anyway.”

If you so much as crack a smile when he is performing these little ditties, he gets super mad and stops.

Molly's up from her nap-- Happy, Blessed New Year to you all!

Forty-three

I'm on my third cold since Thanksgiving.  Thanks to modern medicine, however, I've barely missed a beat..............  that is, until last night, when Mike sat me down and said we had to have a Serious Talk.

"You've gotta get off the nose spray, Kate."

"What are you......what??"

"Don't play dumb. We all know about the Afrin fix. Admit it. You haven't had a cold in weeks."

"What! I'm totally sick! That reminds me, I've got to get to the drugstore before it closes......" I hopped up and started putting on my coat.

"It's over, Katie. I've already called Walgreens. They won't sell to you anymore."

"I'll just go to Snyder's!" I snapped.

"Called them, too."

"I'm not hurting anyone," I whined. I could already feel my nasal passages closing.  Getting...............clogged...........can't........smell.......(me not being able to smell is like Superman not being able to fly.)

"OH NO? You don't think you're hurting anyone?!  What about the kids, Kate, what about the kids? Well, about Finbar, anyway. Meg learned years ago not to pay any attention to you, but the boy...........the boy is so young..... and the baby......."

I looked over to see my son with a Lincoln Log up his nose, making the tell tale 'shhh' sound.  Then and there, I knew I had to get this monkey off my back.  So I've been stumbling around all day, feeling like someone has cemented over my face. I can't taste or smell anything, my eyes are swollen slits, and all I can really hear is the blood pounding in my temples. But when I feel my resolve slipping, I just look over at Finbar, who is now putting Lincoln Logs in his nose for an entirely different reason.

And I know it's the right thing.

Forty-four

I went to the Y today. Put on my workout clothes, laced up my running shoes, jumped onto the treadmill, and after about fifteen minutes I noticed nobody was on the other treadmills in my row. But all the ones in the two rows behind me are full. Weird. I look down, and there is a sign bigger than Dallas that says, "These treadmills reserved for the Senior Slammers.”

Sure enough, here come the Senior Slammers in their velour workout suits, ready to get healthy on their special designated treadmills, only some jerk has taken one of them over and is blithely jogging away, chuckling along with Danny Bonaduce and Dick Clark. ( I wasn't really laughing at the show, but rather the subtitles for the hearing impaired. "I campbell's cross tomorrow!  Protest your horn for Valentine's Day!") Anyway, I was mighty embarrassed. They could at least put the specially designated treadmills behind everyone else, so when you get the boot, it's not in front of the whole darn place.

I moved on to the weight room. In there were three young men I'd guess around eighteen or nineteen, and it's obvious that they have all just begun sharing their first apartment.

"Dude, Cub's got cereal for like a buck a box."

"What kind of cereal?"

"I don't know. Kellogg's or something."

"Cool."

(One of them begins making notes on a sheet of legal paper.)

"You know what you guys don't have here?  Apple grape juice."

"APPLE GRAPE JUICE?!" (In a  shocked and disgusted voice that should be reserved  for saying something like ‘With your grandma?!' )

"Dude, it's sooo good. You guys don't have it here, though."

"Couldn't you just buy apple juice and grape juice and mix them together?"

"No, man, 'cuz it's not fifty-fifty. It's like, thirty-seventy."

"Well, couldn't you just get a small thing of apple and a big thing of grape and mix them?"

"NO, because it's mostly apple."

These two are now glaring at each other, which doesn't bode well for when, two months from now, one finds out the other made out with his girlfriend that one time. The third looks up excitedly from his note paper.)

"You know what are good? Eggs."

I had to leave at this point, as I was five minutes late to pick my poor baby up from the nursery. My poor, helpless baby whom I'd drugged with Triaminic so she'd sleep and the nursery workers wouldn't know she had a cold. I know it's awful, but I hadn't left the friggin' house in four days and I was desperate.

So I don't know how the conversation between the boys ended, but I’m guessing a shared love of eggs saved the day.

© Katie McCollow, 2004 • katie.mccollow@mac.com