Randy wanted me to meet him in Penn Station for an impromptu date one Thursday afternoon in July. I was scared to death—not of going on a date of course, but of getting on a train at Ronkonkoma and riding it to Manhattan—all by myself. I'd never done that before. Randy always, always takes me on the train when we go to the city; mostly because I'm the world's worst reader of maps and the most likely to get lost in any situation where directions are a must. I guess you could call me the world's most directionally challenged person—ever. Randy really wanted me to come though, so I mustered every bit of courage I could and asked Abigail if she would drop me off at the railroad station to catch the 3:15 train to Penn. She said yes and left me there shortly before 3 o'clock.

On the train, I found a two-seat spot and situated myself closest to the window. I piled my purse and newspaper on the empty seat next to me and hoped that everyone who passed by would take the hint that I wanted to sit by myself. Trains can be quite cramped at times, and I relished the extra space for me and my belongings. But my plans fell through. When the train stopped at Douglaston, a very tall and very large man got on board. Standing at the entrance of the narrow aisle, he scanned the train for a place to sit. I hoped with all my might that he would sit in one of the larger, empty seats—but he didn’t. He chose the small one—right next to mine. He stared at me; he stared at my straw handbag. I knew what he meant and moved my stuff onto my lap.

As soon as he sat down I could see that he was much taller than he actually looked. His long legs were now folded at the knee with one hanging over into my space. I hugged my purse and held my shoulder tighter against the window. I felt like a pile of summer clothes crammed into a closet corner, the season's straw handbag laid on top. I tried to do my crossword puzzle, but my elbow wouldn't fit in the little bit of space my fellow rider allotted me. I stared out the window and lamented the fact that I had at least forty minutes left to hug my purse while my new neighbor made himself at right at home sleeping, snoring, and taking up space. “Things will be better when I get off this thing,” I consoled myself.

When the engineer announced that we had arrived at Penn, the extra large passenger who stole my storage seat, got up without saying a word and exited the train. Falling in behind him, I stepped out of the car and onto the platform where hundreds, if not thousands, of people struggled for space to get through. I stood there, hugging my purse again and wondering how on earth I would find my husband. Then someone gently poked me in the ribs. “Let’s get out of here,” Randy said. “It’s way too crowded.” So it was, and so we did. In New York, that just the way it is.

Over the years, I have become a creature of habit. I have a checklist in my mind; and every morning I file through it, mentally marking off each task I complete. I’ve done this for years now. My family doesn’t seem to mind that I often make too much noise at too early of an hour as I vacuum, make coffee, do a few dishes, etc., etc.—except on the days when I should be sleeping in.
“Marsy, what on earth are you doing? Please come back to bed, —it’s only six in the morning!” “Marsy” is what Randy calls me when he’s trying to be nice about my annoying behavior. He puts a pillow over his ears to block all the sights and sounds of my habitual morning ritual. I know that I’m annoying and I try, very carefully, not to disturb him! But I simply cannot take his emphatic suggestion and crawl back into bed. I am wide-awake now, and there’s no way I can fall back asleep. And so I go about my regular routine, making sure there’s a place for everything and everything’s in its place.
Soon, I am cleaning and organizing the bathroom, arranging all the bottles, brushes, and tubes neatly on the marble countertop. Finished at 6:30 am, I decide to tackle the ironing.
“Mom? Are you ironing?” Abbey asks me through half-opened eyes with a sheet wrapped around her for warmth. “It’s only six-thirty in the morning. Aren’t moms supposed to sleep-in on their days off?”
“They certainly are,” I tell her, “But I can’t sleep. I thought I would just get our clothes ready for the day.” She stares at me for a few seconds, quietly nods her head, and silently floats back to bed. She copies her father’s solution and places a pillow over her ears—two of them. Randy and daughter sleep through the morning while I remove the wrinkles from our clothes. When they finally face the day, I am at the ironing board still.
Father and daughter watch cartoons, drink orange juice and coffee, eat donuts, and read the paper while I straighten out the bedspreads and sheets.
“You really should let the maids make the beds, you know. That’s what they’re paid to do,” says my husband.
“I know, I know,” I concede. “I guess I’m just a creature of habit,” I tell him.
Even on vacation. That’s just the way it is.

Our family traveled to Canada last month. In order to cross the border in an official manner, Abbey and I needed to apply for our passports. First we had our photos taken by a teenage girl at CVS. She had black fingernails, bleach blond hair, a dog collar for a necklace, and lipstick—really, really red lipstick. She chewed gum while she focused the camera on our faces and told us we couldn't smile. Then, CVS charged me seven dollars and fifty cents for six, 1x1-inch photos that looked like mug shots from the NYPD. I was embarrassed, but what could I do? We took our less than flattering photos and headed over to the post office.

With all the necessary documentation in hand, we stood in line and waited one half hour on the loveliest Saturday of the year while a completely unorganized and unprepared family of six processed their passports before us. I stared out the window at the beautiful weather, trying with all my might to be patient. Finally our turn came and Abbey went first, plopping her paperwork on the well-worn counter. "We don't accept driver permits as a form of identification," the woman informed Abbey. After much conversation among several other postal workers, it was determined that I, as a parent of said applicant, could sign away her need for an official driver's license. It didn't make sense to me, but I signed the paper. Now, if my only daughter proved to be an illegal alien, it would be entirely my fault.

Next, it was my turn. Happily, I pulled out all the paperwork, ready to prove my proud heritage as a citizen of the United States of America. "Driver's license?" I handed it to her. "Birth certificate?" I handed her that, too. "This is not acceptable," she said. "It's ripped and it's taped. You'll have to get a new one from the State of Wisconsin before we can process your passport." Then she said I could expedite my birth certificate for about seventy dollars on-line. Then she said they could expedite my passport for a fee of two hundred dollars more. My mind did the math. Two expedited passports plus one expedited birth certificate equaled four hundred and seventy dollars. "Let's expedite ourselves out of here," I told Abbey—and we did. And guess what? We expedited ourselves right into Canada without a passport—and our beloved America took us back too. No passport required, just our birth certificates and driver's identification cards. That's just the way it is.

"Company's Comin'!"

A lot of questions run through my mind when guests are scheduled to occupy the spare bed and bath in our home. I want them to be comfortable and to feel right at home—so Abbey and I make sure everything is fresh and clean and neat! We tear into the bathroom and scrub and scour every single surface with anti-bacterial, anti-fungal, anti-viral, and every other "anti" cleaner you could think of. We stock the linen closet with Downy fresh towels and white, white washcloths. Then we prohibit poor Randy from using what is usually his own private bath. "You can't go in there!" we exclaim, while his hand is still on the doorknob. "But I just want to wash my hands!" he pleads. "Sorry," we tell him, insistent that no germs whatsoever make their way into our totally disinfected, sparkling-clean, guest bathroom. He stares at us for several seconds, his hand still holding the doorknob. Finally seeing it our way, he releases his grip and travels to the kitchen to wash the work from his hands.

I wonder, too, if our coming company will be fond of Mr. Higgins. And if they are, I hope and pray he won't crawl into bed with some unsuspecting, innocent person in the middle of the night. This, I am certain, could cause a serious stir within the guest quarters. So far, my fears have been unfounded. Our adorable dog behaves himself in a manner above and beyond what one would expect from a dog. He's a good boy, and gets lots of treats for good behavior when company comes. I keep his treats in a square green jar on the counter labeled with black letters: COOKIES. And although the dog biscuits of Mr. Higgins could never be classified as cookies, I don't mind using my cookie jar to hold them.

Always I wonder if our coming guests will like my cooking, so I try hard to plan nutritious and delicious meals. Soup and salads always fare well, and our weary travelers have always appreciated the homemade baked goods I keep accessible on the counter. Brother Clayton especially enjoys a good, homemade anything! That's why I was quite surprised the last time he was here. "Mary, those cookies aren't so good," Bro. Clayton testified—his back to me as he sat on our living room sofa. "They're dry, and they're hard. I don't like 'em."

Shocked at the brutal truth of his statement, I whirled around from the place where I was standing. On the counter sat a half-eaten dog biscuit. Time stood still while my heart sank to the green tiled floor. Desperately, I searched my mind for a way to tell my beloved guest that he had just eaten dog food. I was sick. Mr. Higgins sat at my feet, staring upward in search of a milk bone. I stared back at him, completely stuck, completely mortified, and completely unaware of what to do next! Thick silence blanketed the kitchen for what seemed a very long time. Then came the chuckle, then the loud laughter, then the teasing…

“I gotcha this time,” the beloved guest laughed with all his might. “BROTHER CLAYTON!” I cried. “You scared me half to death! I though you actually ate a doggie treat!”

“Well, the jar does say ‘cookies’, doesn’t it?” he teased some more, knowing full well I had fallen—lock, stock, and barrel—for his little prank; that’s just the way it is!

"ZGOODLF"

In the bank parking lot, I pulled in behind a splashy little sports car—a bright yellow one with a leather interior. Not a scratch, not a dent. Inside, not a single French fry lay on the carpeted floor; no sticky soda stains were present. The lacquered wooden dashboard shone like a mirror, boasting a large display of dials and gauges. "ZGOODLF" sang the vanity plates. I began to remember when I was blessed with my very own car—for the first time ever! No one was allowed to eat in there—no soda, no juice, no water. No French fries, no chicken nuggets, no ice cream, or candy. The car was to remain new—forever. That was nearly ten years ago.
"Forever" disappeared one day at Taco Bell's drive-through. Abbey ordered a combo meal, three crunchy tacos and a drink of choice—she picked pink lemonade, thirty-two ounces worth. When the Taco Bell worker handed me Abbey's drink through the small, sliding glass window, my triceps, biceps, and carpal tunnels nearly collapsed beneath the pressure. Trying to find a place in the front seat for the gigantic cup was quite impossible. I passed it over to Abbey. The beads of condensation from the cold liquid inside made the plastic cup slippery and I watched, in slow motion it seemed, as thirty-two ounces of sugary pink lemonade slipped between our two hands. We froze, while a lake of lemonade slowly soaked into the carpet of my new car. Then we laughed while we cleaned up the spill with handful-after-handful of Taco Bell napkins.
While soaking up the spill, we found M&Ms in my car, and French fries. M&Ms are supposed to melt just in your mouth; but that’s not true. The M&Ms under the driver’s seat of my car left behind a melted rainbow of color on the carpet—red, orange, brown, and blue. We spilled them one day while driving home from the grocery store. We also discovered, while soaking up the spill, that nothing can destroy a French fry - not blistering heat, not pink lemonade. French fries are indestructable and can lurk harmlessly for years between the seats and underneath them!
ZGOODLF. “Great vanity plates,” I thought to myself while remembering happy times in my not-so-new vehicle. “But really, they belong on my car,” I decided. Along with the pink lemonade, M&Ms, and French fries.

Flying the Friendly Skies?

A recent business trip brought us to the bustling airport of Raleigh, North Carolina. As I prepared to go through security, I found myself fretting a bit over the items I had in my purse. The last time I traveled by air, security personnel forced me to throw out my lip-gloss and my lotion; nor was I allowed to carry my water bottle on board. The Sahara Desert would have been a good destination for me that day. At least I would have blended in with the dry, parched landscape.

So there I was, in a long, long line of travelers, each of us disassembling ourselves in preparation for the metal detector. When my turn came time to go through the electronic archway, I stood there in my stocking feet, completely embarrassed that my knee highs didn’t match my skirt and assuring myself that all the stuff in my purse would pass inspection without a problem. Wrong.

An elderly, yet authoritive airport security agent met me at the end of the line, his left hand holding my shiny, red purse while his crooked right index finger beckoned me to follow him. My heart sank as I searched the line behind me for my husband. I felt like a grade school student on her way to the principle’s office; wondering whether or not I would live through the rest of the day.

The man’s character was cold and his words without expression as he questioned me about my red purse. “Is this yours, Ma’am?’

“Well, well, yes it is. But I took out the lotion before I…” He cut me off before I could finish telling him how efficient I was about obeying the laws of airport security.

“What’s in there?” he interrogated me as he pointed a wooden stick at the black, patent leather change purse I got at Marshall’s for $4.99. It was fat with quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies and weighed about two pounds—a beautiful thing, I thought.

“Change?” I answered, a little unsure that it was actually okay to have change in my purse.

He pulled a white cloth from beneath a stainless steal counter, and began to wipe off my purse, inside and out—especially my overweight change purse. “What are you doing?” I asked, my voice incredulous.

“Checking for explosive residue,” he answered bluntly. With a furrowed brow, I wondered if my mismatched, green argyle socks made me look dangerous enough to have explosives in my handbag.

After my purse and I tested negative for explosives, the security man handed me a zip-lock baggie and told me to use it for transporting my change on the airplane. “Makes it easier see what’s inside,” he said.

“Thanks,” I replied. I crumpled up the plastic baggy and stuffed it in the pocket of my jacket—not planning to ever use the thing.

Randy met me at the end of the conveyor belt. Putting my boots back on I asked him, “Wanna get a coffee? I’ve got a bunch of change to spend…”

"Turn Down the Heat"

We're not quite sure who’s the guilty party, but someone in our home is always leaving the lights on—even during the sunniest of days. Personally, I think Abbey's "the one." Any strange or unusual noise in the house will find her flicking on every light-giving switch—the hallway lights, the family room lights, the bathroom lights, the kitchen lights, the bedroom lights—ALL the lights! And that's no joke. An energy conservationist she is not—people her age aren't programmed to think that way. They believe that the hot water tank is fueled by air. They believe that a thirty-minute shower only uses one gallon of hot water. They believe that every light bulb is the 20-watt variety, and that they can heat the great outdoors by holding open the front door in the middle of January. What they don't know is that their parents must consider second, third, and fourth mortgages to keep up with the energy demand. "Why do you do that?" we ask our children. "I don't know," is what they always tell us.

There are those in my family who say I'm the one who wastes energy—and I don't blame them. I have left a flickering flame to burn beneath an almost-empty pot sending thick, acrid smoke to the ceiling, down the hall, and into the sensitive chambers of our fire alarm—forcing us to open the windows in the middle of winter while we wave out the smoke with bath towels. I've left on the iron, the curling iron, and the flat iron. I've turned up the heat to seventy-five and left it that way all night long. I've left the water running unattended until it spilled over the sides of the sink, onto the first floor, and into the second. And I ask myself, "Why do I do that?" The answer is always the same: "I don't know."

It's usually the father (it is in ours and is probably in yours) who, with a bent towards exaggeration, proclaims, "Every single light in the house is on!" or, "You've been in the shower for an hour!" And it's usually the father who turns down the heat to sixty teeth-chattering degrees at night in order to save fuel oil. Randy does this. In fact, he does every night. And every night, he sits by his computer with a space heater to warm him as he works. Last night, he left it on—all night long. I realized what he had done at 6 o'clock in the morning when I went downstairs to his normally chilly office, which was abnormally warm. I was shocked. Our ever efficient, energy conservationist left our 1,200-watt space heater on—for eight hours. I ran upstairs to inform him, "Rand, you left the space heater on last night—that 's like burning twelve, 100-watt light bulbs all night long!" Putting myself in his shoes, I asked him, "Randy, why did you do that?" He pulled the covers away from his face and looked at me, "I don't know," he said. “I don’t know…”

Putting Up (with) the Tree...

Our Christmas tree is just perfect. We brought it in the house right after Thanksgiving and placed it in its cast iron stand—it stood straighter than a wooden soldier as it towered toward our 12-foot cathedral ceiling. Randy was beaming with gratitude just knowing that he got it straight the first time and wouldn't be crawling back underneath the thing while Abbey and I instructed him, "A little more to the left—no, that's too far—now more to the right—it's falling! DADDY! Be careful!" Putting up the Christmas tree is number one on Randy's list of deplorable tasks, but this year it fell to number ten. Even the lights went on with ease and we didn't break a single glass ornament.

We've had our tree up for quite some time now, and I am happy to report that it hasn't needed any water. This is a good thing. I've never liked lying on my stomach beneath an evergreen tree while holding a pitcher full of warm water sideways. It's very difficult for me to pour the water into the stand without bumping my head or my elbow on the tree's low laying branches. And always the water spills, soaking the carpet, seeping into my sweater, and making what should be a simple task an unnatural disaster. And the dog is always there, sniffing my skirt, pulling my sweater, and trying to drink the spilled water—really just making a general nuisance of himself.

Even if I do manage to give our tree a drink, it never seems to help the poor thing. Its needles fall like rain with the slightest movement. They're dry, they're sharp, and they can poke holes in just about everything they make contact with—including feet. And they're everywhere—all the time. They show up in January, February, March, April, and May. I've found them in the cushions of our sofa in August and September. And just when the house seems to be rid of the remnants from the last year's Christmas tree, it's time to put up another one!

But that's okay—because this year's tree hasn’t shed a single needle. It's standing content, displaying our twenty-seven years’ worth of sentimental ornaments and looking majestically beautiful. It twinkles brilliantly with hundreds of white lights, illuminating our entire first floor. Like I said, it’s perfect—perfectly artificial. And guess what? I love it! That’s just the way it is.

It's a spider, I'm afraid...

a·rach·no·pho·bi·a or a·rach·no·pho·bi·a
n. An abnormal fear of spiders.

This is a dishonest definition of arachnophobia. To fear spiders is normal, it’s actually quite healthy. Abbey reminded me of this while chatting with Randy and me on our way to church one Sunday evening. We were in the van when it happened. Randy was driving, I was looking out the window, and Abbey was talking—just like she always does. She talks or she sings—one or the other—and it’s actually quite pleasant to hear her sweet voice express the lovely things that reside in her heart. But suddenly, she was quiet. I listened for the song to continue but instead heard her speak short and deliberate words, “MOM. LOOK. AT. DAD’S. NECK.”

And so I looked—and then I froze, my heart now sharing a spot with my stomach. There, just above his collar and just below his clean-shaven jaw, was an arachnid—a spider. The kind that makes a tunnel from his spider silk instead of the traditional web. And it was not small. I realized that if I expressed my sheer terror, Randy would express his—not a good thing for a man driving a minivan. And so I remained calm while I positioned my fingers to flick the thing off his neck and into the atmosphere. Wrong move. Seeing my intentions, Abbey, once again, began to express herself, “NO! Don’t flick it, Mom! Please don’t flick it off! It’ll land on me!”

She did have a point. She was sitting directly behind her daddy and the spider could easily land on her neck if I flicked it from her father’s. But my time was running out. I needed to get the spider off my poor husband before it decided to crawl under his collar. And I needed to remain calm—for Randy’s sake. “What is it? What is it?” he kept asking me over and over again. But I could not tell him; remember, he was driving—on Nichols Road, a very busy thoroughfare.

My eyes searched the van for a napkin, a tissue, a Dunkin’ Donuts bag—ANYTHING to grab the ugly arachnid before it darted out of sight. A latex glove used to protect my husband from copier toner toxins lay black and purposeless on the floor of the van. I used it to snatch the unsuspecting spider from my husband’s vulnerable neck and felt it *pop* between my fingertips. I had maintained my composure during the entire spider episode; but at that moment, I felt entitled to lose consciousness in the passenger seat of my husband’s van. In fact, I wanted to lose consciousness and forget that the whole thing ever happened!

This spider incident has changed me forever. Since that day, I cannot ride in our van without checking for the rest of the spider family. And so, I have a NEW definition for arachnophobia:

a·rach·no·pho·bi·a or a·rach·no·pho·bi·a

n. A completely NORMAL fear of spiders.