The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank (11 page)

Then one afternoon something happened. Ralph had a little nervous bedwetter on the mound who had never played anything but electric football. He wore glasses two inches thick and refused to take the bicycle clamp off his pantleg.

The kid pitched out of his mind, throwing them out at first, catching an infield pop-up and pitching curves like he invented them.

Ralph's team (it had no name) won the game 9-0.

The boys were strangely quiet as they walked slowly off the field. Defeat they could handle—winning was something else. Ralph sat in his car a long time before putting his key into the ignition. He wanted time to think.

“See you next week, Coach,” yelled a couple of the boys.

But Ralph Corlis never went near the cornfield or a baseball game again. As he explained to his sons, “I couldn't stand the pressure.”

Confessions of an Officer in the Girl Scout Cookie Corps

No one was more surprised than I at being named Girl Scout Cookie Captain.

I had been in the restroom at the time of the promotion.

The moment following the announcement was rather exhilarating. Mothers crowding around me patting me on the back and whispering in my ear, “If you need anything, I'm in the book,” and assuring me, “This is going to be the best year ever.”

Then they were gone.

And there were twenty-five little girls looking at me to lead them into door-to-door combat

“At ease,” I said, “you may chew gum if you like.” One girl blew a bubble the size of a pink gall bladder. Another one looked at her watch and shifted her weight to the other foot. The others just stared.

“Now then,” I said, “I think this is going to be a great experience for all of us. I'll help you and you can help me. I have only one question before you leave today. What's a Girl Scout Cookie Captain?”

“She sells cookies,” said the girl with the gum. “And where does she get the cookies?” I asked.

She shrugged, “From her own living room.”

I nodded. “I see, and how do they get to her living room?”

“A big truck dumps them there,” said another scout.

“Okay, girls, I'll get it all together and be in touch.”

At home, I grabbed the phone book and began calling all of those wonderful people who had volunteered to help.

Frankly, I didn't realize there were so many of life's losers in one neighborhood.

“I'd love to help, but I'm allergic to children.”

“We're only a one-phone family.”

“Give me a break! I'm on a diet and I'm in remission.”

“I'm volunteering so much now my husband reported me missing.”

“Do I know you? Oh, that sister!”

The first meeting of the Girl Scout cookie army went well. We discussed on what day we would take orders and on what day they must report their sales to me. I, in turn, would process the order for the entire troop and then there was nothing left to do but sit around and wait for C-Day to arrive.

It was about five weeks later when my husband nudged me out of a sound sleep one morning and said, “Do you hear something?”

“Ummm. What's it sound like?”

“Like a truck in our driveway.”

We staggered to the window. By the headlights I saw them: full-grown men unloading carton after carton of cookies. “Where do you want them, lady?” they shouted.

I pointed to the living room.

When I told the girls the cookies were in they did a fantastic Job of holding their emotions in restraint.

One cried, “There goes the skating party.”

Another one slammed down her purse and said, “I wish I were dead.”

And another one declared, “If it rains, I'm not delivering.”

“It's all right, girls,” I smiled, “don't hold back. You can show your excitement if you want to. Frankly, I'm just as choked up as you are. As I was telling my husband this morning as we breakfasted over 250 cartons of vanilla creams, 'This will show me to go to the restroom before I leave home.' ”

The delivery of the cookies was a lot slower than I had anticipated. Hardly a day went by that I wasn't on the phone trying to contact one of the girls to pick up their cookies and deliver them.

“Hello, Marcia? I have the eighty-six boxes of cookies you ordered and ...”

“My grandmother died.”

“I'm sorry about that Marcia, but there are still the cookies.”

“She was down for twenty-eight boxes.”

“I see. Do you happen to know where I can get in touch with Debbie?”

“She moved.”

“Where?”

“I promised I wouldn't tell you.”

“What about Joanne?”

“She's dropped scouting. She's selling peanut brittle for the band now.”

“Marcia! You tell the girls I'm up to my Girl Scout motto in cookies and I want them out of my living room by this weekend, do you hear?”

“Have you tried freezing them?” she asked mechanically.

“Freezing them! Sara Lee should have such a freezer!”

Stripping a captain of his rank in the cookie corps is not a pretty sight. I ripped off my armband, turned in the sign from my window that read “cookie headquarters” and laid my golden badge on top of my yellow scarf.

“Do you have your records book?” asked the leader.

“I do,” I said smartly. “It's all there. There are 143 cartons of cookies unaccounted for and $234 or $12.08 outstanding. It's hard to tell.”

“Do you have anything to say?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice faltering. "I want the record to show that I tried. When twenty-five girls literally vanished from the earth, I tried to dispose of the cookies myself. I sprinkled cookie crumbs on my salads, rolled them into pie crusts, coated pork chops in them, and packed them in lunches. I made paste out of them and mended books, rubbed them on my callouses and rough elbows, and wedged them under the door to keep it open.

"I sent them out with my bills each month, wore two of them as earrings, gave them as wedding gifts, and set glasses on them and pretended they were coasters.

“I put them under my pillow for good luck, made an abstract for the living room, dumped a canful over my compost and crumbled some of them up for kitty litter. I have a cookie rash on 97 percent of my body.”

“Is that all?” asked the leader somberly.

“Yes, I'm finished.”

As I started to leave the room, I could hear nominations being presented for next year's cookie captain.

I turned suddenly and took a front row seat. I couldn't take the chance of leaving the room again.

“BY GOD, WE’RE GOING TO BE A CLOSE-KNIT FAMILY IF I HAVE TO CHAIN YOU TO THE BED!”

The Frozen Kiosk

When historians poke through the rubble of the suburban civilization, they will undoubtedly ponder the refrigerator mystique.

For no apparent reason, other than its functional value, the refrigerator became the meeting place of the American suburban family. It also became a frozen message center whereby anyone could drop by anytime of the day or night.

The rules of communications via refrigerator were simple: Don't write with food in your hand. If phone numbers were illegible, be a sport. Messages left unclaimed over seven years would be destroyed.

This, then, is how the suburban family communicated:

THE LANGUAGE OF REFRIGERATOR DOOR

“Momm. Lost my speling book. Need $2 by Munday.” “Dad. Call Doris. She says you have her number.” “Dad. Call Mom. I have Doris's number too?”

“I will be home when I get there. If not home by the time I'm supposed to be, call and tell whoever answers that I need a ride.” Unsigned.

“Everybody. Don't lock the front door. I've lost my key again. Signed, the Phantom.”

MAKE ICE CUBES. NOT WAR.

“The dog made a mess in the utility room. I'd clean it up but I didn't see it.”

“Mom. Call 975-5520. Could be 957-5220. Or 975-2550. They might call back.”

“The creep who stole my tooth fairy money will be prosecuted!”

“Troops. Be ready to cross the Potomac at midnight. Bring change. G. Washington.”

“Mom and Dad: How much is it worth to you for me to lose the notice of PTA Open House?”

Starving to Death at the Spiritual Family Feast

I got the idea from a sermon.

In church one Sunday, the Reverend said, “The dinner table each evening should have all the elements of a service ... a spiritual family feast whereby each one can share his day and his love with one another.”

“Wasn't that beautiful?” I said in the car on the way home.

“Mom! Guess who stole the sponge out of the Holy Water font?”

“I'm telling. You know when we're supposed to shake hands in a sign of peace? Guess who pressed a dirty nose tissue in my hands then wouldn't take it back?”

“If one of you kids doesn't stop kicking the back of my seat,” said their father, “I'm going to clear the car.”

“Will you knock it off?” I said. “Didn't anyone hear the sermon?”

“Yeah, it was something about sharing pizza.”

“It was not about sharing pizza. It was sharing your spiritual love at a family feast.”

“Same thing.”

“Do you know when was the last time this family ate a meal together?”

No one spoke.

“It was four years ago at Grandma's birthday.”

“I remember,” said our son, “I did the dishes that night.”

“You did not,” said his sister, “I did them because I remember we had lasagna that stuck to the pan and I had to soak it.”

“Yeah, for three weeks!”

“Well, I'm not like some people who put a giant bowl in the refrigerator with a peach pit in it.”

“Only because you eat everything in sight. . . including the pits.”

“Look,” I said, “we are long overdue. Tomorrow night, this entire family is going to sit down together and eat a meal. Only a certificate of death—a recent one— will be acceptable for a no-show.”

The voices in the car became hysterical.

“I was going to practice cheers with Linda after school and then go to the library.”

“You know I have ball practice until 7.”

“It seems to me I have a five o'clock dental appointment and traffic on the expressway is murder. Maybe Tuesday would be a better day.”

“Well, if we're not finished loving one another by 6:30, I'm going to split.”

I remained firm. “Dinner on Monday. Together.”

On Monday at 6 p.m. the scene was set for the Great Spiritual banquet.

It held all the giddiness of the “Last Supper.”

My husband had a mouthful of Novocaine and couldn't get his lips to cover his teeth.

One son appeared in stereo—a transistor in one ear and the phone in the other.

Our daughter had Linda waiting for her behind her chair.

And the other son dressed his arm in a sling to dispel the possibility of having to do dishes.

“Well now,” I said, “now that we are all together, each one of us should think about sharing our day with one another. That should be an enriching experience.”

“Do you know what Ramsey Phillips said were the seven words you can't use on TV?”

“Not that enriched,” I said, clapping my hand over his mouth. “Dear,” I said to my husband, “what would you like to talk about?”

That was a mistake.

Over the years, my husband has composed and committed to memory five standard dinner-table lectures that are as familiar to all of us as the Pledge of Allegiance. They include:

1. “WHY DON'T YOU WANT YOUR FATHER TO HAVE A lawn?” (two minutes, forty seconds). This is a real heart-tugger in which Dad recaps his failure to triumph over bikes, sleds, plastic pools, football games, cars, wagons, dogs, and all the little perverts who cut across his lawn just to make him paranoid.

When his eyes begin to mist, he is ready to go for options. Donate the front yard to the government for nuclear testing. Put a sentry at the driveway with a loaded rifle. Or perhaps (and this is drastic) have the kids take an interest in mowing, fertilizing, and trimming the yard so they can appreciate what he is trying to do. His zinger is, “My compost is in your hands.”

2. “DO I LOOK LIKE A MAN WHO OWNS THE WATER works?” (one minute, forty-eight seconds).

This is a table favorite that is brought on when Dad is overcome by steam and requires oxygen when he tries to enter the bathroom. In his mind, he is convinced that he cannot afford the child who is trying to break into the Guinness Hook of Records for using forty gallons of hot water to wash off a ninety-six-pound body.

This is the lecture in which he uses visuals: prunes to show feet of child exposed to too many showers, and a broom illustrating how hair dries out and cracks from overshampooing. It's a two-parter, the second half taking place immediately following dinner when he takes the group to the bathroom and demonstrates how to turn off the faucet all the way.

3. “captain queeg and the ice cubes” (one minute, thirty-four seconds). The children can always tell when Daddy is going for the Ice Cube number. He appears at the table with two steel balls in his hands and for five minutes does nothing but rotate them. Then he relates with a slight smile how he has trapped the culprit who put the ice cube tray in the freezer— empty. When he made his drink, there were nine ice cubes in the tray. By crouching unnoticed in the broom closet, he noted four of them were used by our daughter to make a malt, three were used by Mother for a glass of iced tea, and the younger son used one to suck on and he was the culprit.

When the younger son protested there was one 1'eft, his father's face lit up and he said, “Wrong! You dropped one on the floor to melt because I slipped on it and nearly broke my back.” The entire table is left to meditate on the consequences.

4. “I'M PAYING YOU KIDS AN ALLOWANCE TO BREATHE.” (two minutes). This is a fun presentation because it's a group participation lecture.

“Do you know how much money I made when I was a child?” asks Daddy.

“Five cents a month,” they yell in unison.

“Five cents a month,” he says as if he hasn't heard them. “And do you know how old I was when I got my first car?”

“Twenty-three years old,” they sigh.

“Twenty-three years old and do you know who bought it for me?”

“You did.”

“I did,” he says, “and have you any idea how much I had to buy with five cents a month?”

“You had to buy all your own clothes, books, tuition, medical expenses, rent, and pay for your entertainment.”

“I had to buy all my own clothes, books, tuition, medical expenses, rent, and pay for my entertainment,” he said. “And can you imagine what I did for entertainment?”

“Changed your underwear.”

“Don't ad lib,” he warns. “We really knew how to squeeze a buffalo in those days.”

When three fourths of the table asks, “What's a buffalo, Daddy?” the lecture begins to deteriorate.

5. “l don't want to talk about it” (thirty minutes). This is the lecture we have all come to dread. It's the I-Don't-Want- to-Talk-about-It lecture that he talks about all during dinner.

Dad appears at the table morose, depressed, and preoccupied, picking at his food—a picture of utter despair.

Finally, one of the kids will volunteer, “If it's about the duck in the utility room.”

“I don't want to talk about it,” he says.

“I'm going to empty all the garbage on the back porch tonight,” promises another.

“Forget it,” he says.

“Hey, just because your shorts came out pink doesn't mean we can't wash them again and put a little bleach ...”

“It doesn't matter,” he says tiredly.

By the end of the dinner hour, we have all confessed to every crime to date and he is still sullen.

Finally, in desperation, I say, “If it's about the dent in the car ...”

“That's what 1 want to talk about,” he says.

This Monday evening, however, my husband surprised us all by introducing a new lecture. It was called, “by GOD, WE'RE GOING TO BE A CLOSE-KNIT FAMILY IF I HAVE TO chain you to the bed!” He began:

“It certainly is wonderful sitting down to a table together for a change.”

“Is that it?” asked our daughter, pushing back her chair. “Can I go now?”

“No!” he shouted. “We are going to sit here and get to know one another. I am your father.”

“We thought you were taller,” said the son with the sling on his arm.

“I'm sorry if I haven't seen as much of you as I would have liked. It isn't easy commuting to and from the city every day. Now, we are going to go around the table and each one of you can tell me something about yourself.” He looked at our daughter.

“I'm the token girl in the family. I like birthday cards with money in them, bathroom doors that can't be unlocked from the outside by releasing it with a pin, and I want to be a professional cheerleader when I grow up. Can I go now or does it have to be longer?”

“Stay put,” said her father. “Next,” he said, turning to our son with his arm in a sling. “I'm the middle child in the family and am bored, depressed, neurotic, unfulfilled, and subject to pressures which will eventually drive me to my own apartment.”

“Why not?” I said dryly. “You have to be driven everywhere else.”

“Now, Mother,” said Daddy, “it's not your turn.”

“It's never my turn,” I sulked. “Do you know what I think? I think you stopped loving me the day my upper arms became too big for puffed sleeves. Admit it?”

“Come now, let the boy talk.”

“I have to do everything in this house,” he continued. “Even though I was freed legally in 1860 by Lincoln. Take out the garbage. Let the dog out. Answer the phone. Get the paper. Change the channel on TV. Get Mom a drink of water.”

“Drinking water wasn't my idea,” I said wistfully.

“Hey, don't I get to say anything again?” asked the youngest. “Do you realize because I'm the baby of this family I never get to open my mouth. I've been trying to tell a joke at this table for the last three years.”

Dad held up his hand for silence. “The boy is right. Take those wires out of your ears and tell us your joke.”

“Well,” he began, “there was this guy who stuttered a lot.”

“I've heard it,” said his brother, pushing away from the table.

“How do you know you've heard it? There are a lot of guys who stutter.”

“I happen to know that of all the guys who stutter, only one of them made a joke out of it. Mom! Don't let him tell it. It's sick.”

“It is not sick,” persisted the youngest, “and was your stutterer from the South?”

“How long is this joke?” asked Linda, leaning over our daughter's shoulder. “If it's going to be much longer, I have to call home.”

“You are excused to call your mother,” said Dad. “Now continue with the joke.”

“Well,” he giggled, “this guy from the North said to the guy from the South, 'What are you doing up North?' And the stutterer said, 'Lllllooooookkinnnng for a jjjob.' ”

“Didn't I tell you it was sick?” said his brother.

“Then,” he continued, “his friend said, 'What sort of work are you looking for?' He said, 'Rrrrrrraaaaadddiooo aaannnouuunnnciing.' Then his friend asked, 'Any luck?' And this guy said (he held his sides with laughter as he blurted it out), 'Nnnnooo, whhhaaat chance does a stttttuuttteerer have?' ”

We all sat there in silence.

“That is the dumbest joke I've ever heard,” said his sister.

“It's sick,” said his brother.

“Are you sure you got the tagline right?” I asked.

“I've heard the joke,” said his dad, “and the tagline is 'Whhat chaance hhhas a Sooooutheeerner?' ”

“Why is this family down on Southerners?” asked our daughter, leaving the table.

“I don't like your ending,” said our youngest son.

“It's not my ending,” said his father, “it's the way the joke goes.”

“If you heard it before, you should have stopped me,” he said, rushing to his room in tears.

“It's not my turn to do dishes,” announced the last child, slipping out of his chair.

My husband turned to me. “When was the last spiritual family feast we shared together?”

“Four years ago at Grandma's birthday,” I said numbly.

“Time flies when you're healing,” he mused.