Tag Archives: summertime

June 30, 2010 · 10:36 pm

Flies Among Us

For me Independence Day has always marked the advent of summer, even though the calendar begs to differ. As a kid I remember thinking that the really good stuff didn’t happen until then. Not until flags were unfurled to line streets and storefronts and to flap and wave unfettered on front porches and stoops. Till parades and patriotism marched down Main Street, with bands and batons galore. Till the towering man on stilts made his way through the crowd along with white-faced clowns toting bouquets of balloons, billowing lazily in the breeze high above their heads. Till the Carnies came to town, towing tired caravans of carnival wares behind them and leaving in their collective wake barren patches of earth in the green fields of Smythe Park. Till the icy chill finally left the depths of our town pool. Till the unrelenting oppressiveness that is July and August settled in for the duration. That’s when summer officially began for me.

I suppose my children would frame the birth of this beloved season similarly, although they’d tack on a few additional milestones: like firefly sightings, serenading crickets and evenings running barefooted through the cool grass. Like sprinklers and sparklers, Frisbees and freedom and, of course drippity ice cream cones under the hot, hot sun. Like sandals and sundresses, campouts and cookouts, bathing suits and bug spray. Or like sitting in front of a box fan for hours—not so much to cool off, but to revel in the rattles and croakiness one could instantly produce by singing into it. “That’s so cool, Mom! Must be summer’s finally here!”

It’s certainly here alright. I know because the doors open and close roughly 600 times a day in this household and the flies are among us. The ones that have made my kitchen table a landing strip, my countertops a veritable garden party and my windows a rumored path to freedom—or perhaps to an untimely death. “Mommy, let me make him all squishy. I can do it. I watched you before.”

Gak! The thought of squishing and squashing and smearing the innards of said vileness all over my perfectly fingerprinted windows and cabinetry makes me ill. Yes ill. Yet allowing the loathsome creatures to willfully buzz everywhere, in that completely frenzied, pinball-like state we all know and love, bumping and banging into every blasted thing in the house and spreading God-knows-what kind of germage far and wide is worse. Far worse. It’s beyond repulsive and fast approaching hurl-worthy from my perspective.

Oddly enough, it’s the buzzing that bothers me most as the winged beasts (i.e. flying Raisinettes) ricochet here and there in a panic, pausing only to rest and to resonate in the presumed safety of corners to the annoyance of all. I especially abhor the characteristic hum of those big, hairy boxcar types—the Airbus of house flies. The sort that spits and sputters like an overburdened engine gasping for life, careening toward the earth at an alarming rate, preparing to crash and burn—or to plaster my windows yet again. But it’s the maddening drone in the air that I dread most.

Apparently, my children do not share my hatred of this summertime pest. In fact, a few years ago they were into naming the silly things. Frank. Fuzzy-head. Buzz. Whatever seemed fitting at the time. They even had the audacity to befriend them and to talk to them on occasion, to coax them into leaving our humble abode—preferably unscathed and well-fed.

Now, however, they find the mangy things to be a great source of amusement. They still name them, although they’re just as likely to kill, maim or imprison them indefinitely as they are to converse with them or to set them free. “Look, Mommy! I whacked Frank right out of the air with the swatter and then pounded him into the carpet (read: beat him into submission) ALL BY MYSELF! Let’s call Daddy at work! Just like I did when I lost my tooth!”

And so we did. I could think of nothing more newsworthy on earth to report—except for maybe the fact that she and her cohort had given some hapless caterpillars and worms a bath earlier in the day.

No doubt about it. Summer’s here!

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.

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Filed under Daily Chaos, Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, Kid-Speak, Rantings & Ravings, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as dysfunction, family, house flies, humor, kids, moms, parenting, summertime

June 2, 2010 · 2:00 pm

It Came with the House

Lots of little extras came with the home my husband and I fell in love with a dozen or so years ago. Things you simply can’t put a price on—like the infinitely practical slab of concrete in the back yard that begs to be festooned with chalk and filled with a bevy of bikes and scooters. Never mind its intended purpose as a basketball court. Additional nuggets of goodness for which I cannot readily assign a price: its breathtaking view of the city—especially at night, its perfectly situated vantage point for savoring both sun and moonrises, the massive shade trees that pepper the property and welcome cool breezes come summertime, its sprawling sea of grass and little islands of blooming things that continue to thrive despite my anything-but-green thumb, its great canopy of pines—hollowed out to perfection for the ultimate secret hideout, the way it’s nestled into a hillside as if nature had intended it all along.

Of course, its interior boasts extras as well—like the wealth of space we never dreamed we’d need (for the voluminous and ever expanding cache of kid paraphernalia we now own). Like the creaky floors—which I’m told add character, the cavernous closets which time and again have been transformed into drool-worthy clubhouses, the generous bank of windows through which sunlight abundantly pours (even more so when I’m inspired to scrub them) and the utterly priceless feature that enables anyone at any time the freedom to flush without fear of scalding some poor schmuck in the shower. For all these inordinately precious things I have been grateful since Move-in Day 1997.

And yet, there was more.

In the garage, a riding lawn mower awaited us. It came with the house—which puzzled me greatly. “Had the sellers forgotten to take their mower? Who forgets a mower?” I had to wonder. Silent and still the 16 horsepower entity in question sat on the cool concrete as my husband and I circled to inspect it. Its less-than-pristine condition soon became apparent. It was a worn and weary, pitifully dilapidated, off-brand bastard-of-a-thing that was apparently left behind ON PURPOSE. Forsaken by its owners. Perhaps left-for-dead—or at least left to die in peace rather than to be put through the trauma of a big move. Who knew?

At any rate, we would soon adopt said woebegone tractor—for better or for worse. Of course, we didn’t expect much from this has-been, fickle-minded, backfiring beast on wheels. Surely, its days were numbered. Indeed, as any good skeptic would assert, each and every start of its engine was deemed a gift from God.

Years passed, however, and we came to learn that beneath that flimsy and oh-so-drab-looking shell beat the heart of a gladiator. A lord of the lawn. A survivor in the truest sense of the word. Granted, it was (and still is) a hideous site to behold with its obliterated grill, missing headlights, dangling bundles of wire and exposed innards (i.e. a jumbled mass of machinery that was once neatly housed under a hood the likes of which has since fallen off completely—cleverly held in place with bungee cords and whatnot). An embarrassment, for certain. It’s a wonder we haven’t been banished from the neighborhood. But the silly thing still runs. Not like a deer, mind you; but it runs nonetheless, defying all odds, baffling our poor mechanic to no end and causing passersby to turn their heads in shame.

Stranger still, the stupid thing doesn’t seem to care that virtually no one had faith in its ability to endure a lifetime of untold hardships—to include bouncing and jouncing up and down our teeth jarring terraces and maneuvering again and again the twists and turns that define our property. Further, it pays no mind to our harsh words regarding slippage on slopes, to our reprehensible commentary suggesting that a goat could perhaps do a better job or to our incessant mockery of its inferior lineage. A thick-skinned creature, to be sure.

I wonder now what sort of mileage our seasoned warrior of weeds has logged and how many exceedingly dull (yet completely joyous!) laps around our yard it has journeyed with my kids in tow and their dad at the helm, dutifully pointing out tiger lilies and tulips, birds’ nests and burrows—gradually relinquishing command of the wheel as they became more adept with each passing summer.

Needless to say, we’ve grown quite fond of our dear hunk of junk. Undeniably, it’s family now and we can’t possibly imagine life without it. That said, we’re exceptionally grateful to have found it lurking in the garage—as opposed to anything remotely suggestive of a goat.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (where the green grass grows and grows).

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Filed under Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as disorder, dysfunction, family, home, humor, husbands, kids, love, summertime

May 28, 2010 · 1:15 pm

That’s Corny

It has been said that you can tell a lot about a person by how they eat an ear of corn. Who needs fancy-schmancy personality inventories or the opinion of some accredited guru to learn the depth and breadth of someone’s quirkiness? Just watch them eat. The proof’s in the puddin’—or in the corn, so to speak. All sorts of dining-related peculiarities surface once those steamy plates of golden-y yellow are set before a hungry crowd. And I’d daresay the oddities are stunningly similar to the ones exhibited when they’re NOT chowing down on anything—least of all, those sweet and succulent kernels of perfection.

Just for fun, I decided to test my theory by conducting a little research of my own—at the kitchen table, of course, where most of life’s important discoveries are made over Spaghetti-O’s, Kool-Aid and tuna casserole. So is it any wonder that such vital data would be best gathered there? Perhaps the only location or event better suited for said clinical study would be at a backyard barbecue or at a mid-summer’s family reunion; but then again, my clipboard and frenzied note-taking might frighten the subjects and skew the results. At our modest dinner table, the variables were controlled as much as humanly possible and the gathering of information was discreet in order to maintain the integrity of the analysis. Needless to say, names were changed to protect the eccentric.

There was the child with buttery elbows who nibbled and gnawed at the cob, slowly and methodically inspecting each and every row upon completion, ensuring that no kernel was left behind. Pun intended. She would then return, typewriter-style, to the left-hand extreme and repeat. She had a system, sound reasoning and a need for logic and order. Naturally, fastidiousness is nothing new to this particular individual. For a long time she got her jollies by stringing a 30-foot procession of plastic cups and saucers, pots and pans across the floor through the kitchen and into the dining room (arranged first by size, then by color). She did the same with Beanie Babies. And Matchbox cars. And books. And pillows. Finally, with animal crackers. So truthfully, it was no surprise to discover how she might tackle an ear of corn. No doubt, a future candidate for OCD.

My other smallish nibbler employed a completely different strategy for the task at hand. She picked and pecked at those plump little nuggets of corn like some deranged bird, striking randomly and fiercely with every pint-sized bite. No identifiable pattern ever emerged. At least none that I could see—except for the flecks of yellow sprinkled on the floor, perfectly outlining her chair. There appeared to be no method to her madness. No logic to her lunacy. Once again, the personality characteristics in question matched uncannily—she’s a veritable live wire, bouncing from one thing to the next, blessed with the attention span of a gnat. Of course her corn would be consumed with haphazard flair. The typewriter thing just wouldn’t fly. Not for this free spirit.

Captain Quirk (not disappointingly) earned his stripes yet again, proving to me (and soon, to many) that his weirdness is without limit. A nonconformist to the core, the man devours corn-on-the-cob in perhaps the most unorthodox manner in existence. He begins by gnawing kernels from left to right, pausing in the center of the cob only to return to the left end again. He rolls it precisely one-quarter turn and follows with the very same action, over and over until exactly one-half of the ear is consumed. He then does the unthinkable. He sets it down on his plate to eat (Gasp!) something else, returning to it later. A heinous crime in most states, I am certain.

I, personally, don’t surface for air until the job is finished, classic type-writer style. And I’d never dream of touching a hamburger or hotdog in the midst of a session with hot, buttery corn-on-the-cob. It’s absurd even to entertain such foolishness. Pass the potato salad? Make idle chit-chat? Fat chance. I’m in a zone.

Quirky? Nah, just passionate about my corn.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (where napkins are entirely optional).

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Filed under Captain Quirk, Daily Chaos, Meat & Potatoes, The Chicken Man, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as corn-on-the-cob, dysfunction, family, humor, husbands, kids, picnics, quirks, summertime

May 11, 2010 · 11:54 am

June is Calling

June is calling. I know this much is true. Not because the calendar tells me so or because the sun lingers deliciously at the close of each day, but because I’ve been formally reinstated as the resident Flip-flop Finder (i.e. the fool who routinely scours the earth at dusk, rescuing forsaken footwear from an untimely demise). More specifically, I traipse around in the dark and dewy grass with flashlight-in-hand, grousing about someone’s less than responsible behavior—searching interminably for evidence of my children’s beloved shoe-like entities that in all likelihood will be consumed by the mean and horrible lawn mower should I fail to deliver in a timely manner.

Needless to say, there is a great deal of pressure in this job.

For the record, I have also been restored to my thankless post as Returner-of-Sand-to-the-Sandbox as well as Ball Retriever Extraordinaire, Gatherer of Guns, Steward of Swords, Harvester of Wayward Bicycles, Birdies and Bats, Hula Hoop Picker-Upper, Band-aid Putter-On-er, Sunscreen Slatherer, Ant “Stompler,” Bee Chaser and let us not forget the illustrious One Who Fetches Things (read: the idiot who willingly and expeditiously delivers those gotta-have-it-or-we’ll-surely-die items—like magnifying glasses, dirt digging spoons and Zip-loc baggies teeming with Cheerios). Thankfully however, my services as Squirt Gun Refiller are no longer required as I’ve since been promoted to Bathroom Floor Sopper-Upper.

Indeed, June is calling. The end-of-school-year countdown has officially begun—a reality with which one of my second grade progenies is exceedingly delighted, while her slightly miserable sidekick wallows in grief over the impending death of all-things-schoolish. Woe is me. That said, in the months to come I will assuredly be charged with an impossibly challenging task: making each and every day of the summer vacation abundantly exciting while at the same time painting next fall’s return to academia as something akin to unadulterated bliss. Ugh.

Yea, the sixth month of the year is surely nigh as evidenced by my children’s incessant and oh-so-theatrical pleas for a trip (or ten!) to Knoebels Amusement Park—an attraction I love and loathe with equal intensity. The heat, the din, the swarming masses and schmutzy ice cream! Oy! And yet, there is something curiously alluring about the wretched place. Disturbingly so, methinks.

“I wanna go on the roller coaster and the Flume and the Sklooosh, too, Mom—because the Sklooosh is splashier!” Case in point: My charges have begun to make up words to describe said mecca of amusement—which can’t be a good thing. What’s more, they’ve resorted to employing guilt tactics—which is SOnot nice.

“Yeah, Mom, So-and-So already went to Knoebels! Why can’t we go? It’s almost June, you know—I’m so bored I could just die.”

Without a doubt, I will cave. Soon I’ll be marking our calendar with a scheduled day of bedlam—filling up an entire square (or several) with the word KNOEBELS in big, fat letters and a crude rendering of roller coasters and whatnot. It is almost June after all. Time to drag my sorry self to that celebrated park and feast on fun, adventure and the possibility of heatstroke. Oh well, it beats January—that intolerable collection of 31 days during which I longed for even the suggestion of warmth.

Ah yes, June certainly is whispering in my ear these days, not simply because we’re on the cusp of a new season poised to transition (ready or not) into summer, but because we, personally, are about to embark upon a new chapter in life. My husband will retire come June. After great deliberation, reflecting upon his 35 years in Pennsylvania’s public school system where he served in a variety of capacities from educator to administrator, athletic director to advisor, mentor to coach, he is ready to embrace what the next phase of his career may hold. His biggest lament, however, is leaving behind a community of students who trust, believe and so desperately need the support of a principal they have come to know.

But June is calling. And we must listen.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (looking for flip-flops among other things).