Editor’s note: Instead of running with Zen Mother’s usual column, we sat down with the elusive woman for an in-depth look at Newburyport’s most inappropriate advice columnist. The reporter asked not to be identified.
Reporter: Thank you for meeting with us today, Mrs. Z. Many of our readers are curious about you.
ZM: Well, I’m always willing to chat with you about being Newburyport’s most trusted advisor.
Reporter: Um, no, that’s not it. We wanted to interview you because April is National Humor Month.
Silence
Reporter: So…uh…we thought it would be timely to talk to you about your humor column.
ZM: You think I write a humor column? You think what I write is funny?
Reporter: Well, yeah. I mean, that stuff can’t be true – about killing your husband all the time, your wild kids and that crazy relative of yours, Grammy Z. That’s all made up, right?
ZM: What? Oh, right. Sure.
Reporter: So, where do you derive your material? Mrs. Z, excuse me but do you have something in your eye? It’s twitching.
ZM: You have no idea what it’s like. Living with them.
Reporter: Who? Why do you keep looking over your shoulder?
ZM: Them. They’re evil.
Reporter: Your family? C’mon. That can’t be true. What about your children?
ZM: They’re the worst – especially the youngest.
Reporter: He’s five years old, correct? What could be so evil about him?
ZM: I make him broccoli and when I put the plate in front of him, he says, “Ice cream sandwich?” Cute as can be, just like that. And I say, “Eat your broccoli,” and he say’s “Ice cream sandwich?” and I say, “Eat your broccoli” and he says…
Reporter: Ice cream sandwich?
ZM: YES! Don’t you see the madness?
Reporter: What do you do?
ZM: I GIVE HIM THE ICE CREAM SANDWICH! And the broccoli lies there staring at me, mocking me.
Reporter: Oh, I don’t think broccoli would mock you. Ah, waiter? Could I get the check? Quickly?
ZM: Well, the broccoli isn’t as bad as the Lego people – They live all over the house. They’re always whispering insults and playing practical jokes on me…climbing into my shoes, sneaking up from the couch cushions…I can’t stand it!
Reporter: The Lego people? WAITER! I really need to get back to work, Mrs. Z. Thank you for your time.
ZM: Wait! You can’t leave me. I can’t go home to that husband. He’s perfect, you know. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to live with someone like that? And every time I kill him, he comes back to life! Perfect and invincible!
Reporter: I’m sure he’ll die one of these days. Please, ma’am, let go of my leg.
ZM: Take me with you. Can’t you put me in a witness protection program or something? Don’t leave me! I BEG OF YOU!
Editor’s note: As you can see, Zen Mother needs a long vacation, preferably in a high-security location with soothing music and nightly Bingo. She’ll be wrapping up her column in May to return at a later…much later…date.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Friday, April 14, 2006
A matter of taste
Dear Zen Mother,
My husband and I are in the middle of painting and redecorating our house in hopes of selling it soon. What I'd like to know is, why do men's ideas of redecorating vary so greatly from women's?
Gloria from New York
Dear Gloria,
Before you spackle your husband into the wall, know that you raise an age-old struggle between husband and wife.
Henry Vlll beheaded Ann Boleyn not for lack of a male heir but because she dared called him 'swine!' when he ordered tapestries of Dogs Playing Poker for the royal rec room.
And shortly thereafter the secret Brethren of the Lazy Boy was established to help rid women from decorating decisions once and for all. One of its tenets being “No decorative pillows nor hand towels with appliqué butterflies shall dwell in manly abodes”– the existence of this organization today, however, is highly controversial.
Some wives have experienced a supernatural phenomenon whereby upon leaving a room with well-placed chairs and sofas arranged for conversation they return to find all the seats moved to within eight inches of the television.
But the roots of gross style discrepancies between husband and wife go back to the time of cave dwellings. Contrary to popular opinion, Neanderthal man did not club his wife over the head and drag her into the bedroom for uninterrupted prehistoric pleasure. No no, my friend. It was the ever-resourceful Neanderthal bride who brought a club along with her trousseau begging to be knocked out at the threshold so as not to see the paintings of last week’s kill on the living room walls.
In modern times, sensible women forgo the clubbing endured by our female ancestors to pursue a less painful solution. It’s called “I’m right and you’re wrong.” While this philosophy is applied to many situations during the course of a marriage, it is particularly useful in decorating, say, when your husband wants to know why a mini fridge for the bathroom is not a good idea or why hanging his (last place) bowling team picture (from five years ago) above the fireplace is not going to happen. Since there is no way to rewire your husband’s decorating ‘flair,’ you simply have to say, “Because I’m right and you’re wrong…so take that fish head side table out to the garage.”
But every so often, this tried and true response to your mate fails. This is when we women of impeccable taste, maturity and class resort to what is known as Operation Over My Dead Body: “If you replace my original Picasso with a wide screen television I’ll invite my mother to move in with us.”
Compromises can be met, however. The bowling team photo can be hung above the toilet (you’ll never see it) and a wide screen television will be nice to watch all those foreign films with subtitles you and your mother plan to rent for the next six months. If nothing else, you can always borrow my club.
My husband and I are in the middle of painting and redecorating our house in hopes of selling it soon. What I'd like to know is, why do men's ideas of redecorating vary so greatly from women's?
Gloria from New York
Dear Gloria,
Before you spackle your husband into the wall, know that you raise an age-old struggle between husband and wife.
Henry Vlll beheaded Ann Boleyn not for lack of a male heir but because she dared called him 'swine!' when he ordered tapestries of Dogs Playing Poker for the royal rec room.
And shortly thereafter the secret Brethren of the Lazy Boy was established to help rid women from decorating decisions once and for all. One of its tenets being “No decorative pillows nor hand towels with appliqué butterflies shall dwell in manly abodes”– the existence of this organization today, however, is highly controversial.
Some wives have experienced a supernatural phenomenon whereby upon leaving a room with well-placed chairs and sofas arranged for conversation they return to find all the seats moved to within eight inches of the television.
But the roots of gross style discrepancies between husband and wife go back to the time of cave dwellings. Contrary to popular opinion, Neanderthal man did not club his wife over the head and drag her into the bedroom for uninterrupted prehistoric pleasure. No no, my friend. It was the ever-resourceful Neanderthal bride who brought a club along with her trousseau begging to be knocked out at the threshold so as not to see the paintings of last week’s kill on the living room walls.
In modern times, sensible women forgo the clubbing endured by our female ancestors to pursue a less painful solution. It’s called “I’m right and you’re wrong.” While this philosophy is applied to many situations during the course of a marriage, it is particularly useful in decorating, say, when your husband wants to know why a mini fridge for the bathroom is not a good idea or why hanging his (last place) bowling team picture (from five years ago) above the fireplace is not going to happen. Since there is no way to rewire your husband’s decorating ‘flair,’ you simply have to say, “Because I’m right and you’re wrong…so take that fish head side table out to the garage.”
But every so often, this tried and true response to your mate fails. This is when we women of impeccable taste, maturity and class resort to what is known as Operation Over My Dead Body: “If you replace my original Picasso with a wide screen television I’ll invite my mother to move in with us.”
Compromises can be met, however. The bowling team photo can be hung above the toilet (you’ll never see it) and a wide screen television will be nice to watch all those foreign films with subtitles you and your mother plan to rent for the next six months. If nothing else, you can always borrow my club.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Give me a break
Dear Zen Mother,
April vacation is just around the corner and I am at a loss for family vacation ideas. It seems like the kids were just out of school last week. Any suggestions?
Rachel from West Newbury
Dear Rachel,
My kids have always found the front hall closet a fun and rewarding ‘adventure’ for a week or two. Give them a flashlight and some Twinkies and they’re good to go. To make it a ‘Wild Kingdom’ type of getaway, just throw in the pet hamster and snake and watch nature take its course.
My husband thought the kids might enjoy a change of scenery this time around, however, and brought home several brochures of cave spelunking, helicopter skiing, bungee jumping and other “extreme” type of vacations.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to jump off a bridge?” he asked me.
“Every day and every night,” I answered.
“Seriously, sweetheart, extreme vacations are a great way to bond the family and release stress at the same time,” my husband said.
I thought back to Grammy Z playing naked water polo in the Marriott Courtyard pool last summer and wondered just how much more ‘extreme’ a vacation I could take.
“And extreme vacations don’t have to mean rustic. Many are very upscale. Look, here’s a trip to Antarctica complete with gourmet meals,” he said.
I interpreted ‘gourmet meal’ as being carried away by a polar bear that has sadly mistaken me for an oversized seal in my Louis Vuitton leather parka.
“And this one incorporates a social cause,” my husband continued pointing to a glossy picture of a family preparing fully equipped backpacks for the Emperor Penguins prior to their now famous march over hundreds of treacherous miles (couldn’t the family have given the birds a ride in their luxury all-terrain tour bus instead?).
“Or, if you can’t decide, just choose from this handy chart,” he persevered.
“I’ll take ‘Solitary Confinement’ for 100, Alec.”
“C’mon. The kids will love it,” my determined husband said.
I looked into the backyard where the sun danced across the climbing rocks and the tall sugar maple held up the tire swing and tree house. Then I turned to the living room where our kids were staring mindlessly at the TV.
“Kids, would you like to go on an extreme vacation instead of the front hall closet this spring?” I asked.
No response.
“I can’t say they’re enthused by this, honey,” I said to my husband.
He walked over and shut off the TV (apparently embracing the extreme vacation tenet to risk life and limb).
“DAD! What are you doing? We were watching THAT!” they cried.
“Tell me what show you were watching and I’ll give you fifty bucks,” he challenged.
“The Simpsons,” said one.
“American Idol,” said another.
“60 Minutes,” said the last, glaring at the others for forgetting their agreed-upon pat answer.
Their father calmed them down and asked them to select a family vacation destination – front hall closet (exotic pet animals and junk food included) or Parachuting in Paraguay, perhaps.
“Can’t we just watch “Fear Factor” while washing dishes for mom?” they asked, recalling a particularly favorite moment when the brothers challenged each other to eat dinner remnants out of the garbage disposal.
Their discouraged father turned the TV back on and left the room, his shoulders hunched, his chin down. My heart ached for the good and dedicated man. It was at this moment I decided to help him achieve what he so desired. I vowed to push him off a bridge the first chance I got.
April vacation is just around the corner and I am at a loss for family vacation ideas. It seems like the kids were just out of school last week. Any suggestions?
Rachel from West Newbury
Dear Rachel,
My kids have always found the front hall closet a fun and rewarding ‘adventure’ for a week or two. Give them a flashlight and some Twinkies and they’re good to go. To make it a ‘Wild Kingdom’ type of getaway, just throw in the pet hamster and snake and watch nature take its course.
My husband thought the kids might enjoy a change of scenery this time around, however, and brought home several brochures of cave spelunking, helicopter skiing, bungee jumping and other “extreme” type of vacations.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to jump off a bridge?” he asked me.
“Every day and every night,” I answered.
“Seriously, sweetheart, extreme vacations are a great way to bond the family and release stress at the same time,” my husband said.
I thought back to Grammy Z playing naked water polo in the Marriott Courtyard pool last summer and wondered just how much more ‘extreme’ a vacation I could take.
“And extreme vacations don’t have to mean rustic. Many are very upscale. Look, here’s a trip to Antarctica complete with gourmet meals,” he said.
I interpreted ‘gourmet meal’ as being carried away by a polar bear that has sadly mistaken me for an oversized seal in my Louis Vuitton leather parka.
“And this one incorporates a social cause,” my husband continued pointing to a glossy picture of a family preparing fully equipped backpacks for the Emperor Penguins prior to their now famous march over hundreds of treacherous miles (couldn’t the family have given the birds a ride in their luxury all-terrain tour bus instead?).
“Or, if you can’t decide, just choose from this handy chart,” he persevered.
“I’ll take ‘Solitary Confinement’ for 100, Alec.”
“C’mon. The kids will love it,” my determined husband said.
I looked into the backyard where the sun danced across the climbing rocks and the tall sugar maple held up the tire swing and tree house. Then I turned to the living room where our kids were staring mindlessly at the TV.
“Kids, would you like to go on an extreme vacation instead of the front hall closet this spring?” I asked.
No response.
“I can’t say they’re enthused by this, honey,” I said to my husband.
He walked over and shut off the TV (apparently embracing the extreme vacation tenet to risk life and limb).
“DAD! What are you doing? We were watching THAT!” they cried.
“Tell me what show you were watching and I’ll give you fifty bucks,” he challenged.
“The Simpsons,” said one.
“American Idol,” said another.
“60 Minutes,” said the last, glaring at the others for forgetting their agreed-upon pat answer.
Their father calmed them down and asked them to select a family vacation destination – front hall closet (exotic pet animals and junk food included) or Parachuting in Paraguay, perhaps.
“Can’t we just watch “Fear Factor” while washing dishes for mom?” they asked, recalling a particularly favorite moment when the brothers challenged each other to eat dinner remnants out of the garbage disposal.
Their discouraged father turned the TV back on and left the room, his shoulders hunched, his chin down. My heart ached for the good and dedicated man. It was at this moment I decided to help him achieve what he so desired. I vowed to push him off a bridge the first chance I got.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Learning the hard way
Dear Zen Mother,
I’m very concerned about cutbacks in education so I’m considering home schooling my children. Do you think this is a good idea?
Amanda from Newbury
Dear Amanda,
A few months back, my husband introduced just such an idea.
“I think the kids might benefit from home schooling,” he said. “I mean, you’re home all day anyway with that writing thing you do. And your sister thought it was a good idea.”
“Your words are a knife in my back,” I said to him.
“It’s not meant to…are you speaking with an Italian accent?” he asked.
“You’re dead to me,” I declared and went into the kitchen to cook Veal Braciola but not before calling my sister.
“I know it was you, Fredo,” I said to her answering machine then I hung up the phone to search for my garlic press.
That night at dinner my kids asked for their father.
“He sleeps with the fishes,” I told them. “Eat your veal.”
“Mom, you have to stop killing Dad. It’s getting old,” said my young teenager.
I decided to come clean and tell them about their father’s suggestion to be home schooled. But before I could say “fugedaboudit!” my kids were out the back door digging up their father and carrying him around on their shoulders chanting “Daddy’s Great! Daddy’s Great!” Clearly they were attached to the man. I had to seek my revenge another way.
Two weeks later, my husband asked his five-year old what he was learning “in school.”
“Lots of things, Dad. Mom’s a great teacher.”
Smug and confident, his father continued his probe. “What subjects are you learning? Math?”
“Oh no,” said the boy. “Mom says math is bull@#$%.”
The father choked on his morning coffee. “We don’t use that word, son,” he explained, trying to compose himself.
“Mom does – all the time. And lots of other words too, like #$*&, ^%#@#$ and @#^^&%$#. She says vocabulary is very important in life.”
The father’s middle child entered the room. “Don’t worry, Dad. We’re also learning a lot about history. Like about Billy the Kid. Yeah, he was this teenage boy turned gunslinger who was notoriously recognized as Demi Moore’s boyfriend before her first plastic surgery full-body restoration in 1878.”
“Yeah,” said the oldest, joining the discussion, “And we’re learning about Queen Elizabeth. She was offered gifts from kings and princes far and wide in return for her hand in marriage, including a lifetime supply of Manolo Blahnik shoes from the Italian king. Mom said this was tempting because Elizabeth loved her glam, but she was not the kind of girl to let a man slip into her empire.”
“And John Smith,” continued the middle child. “He was an American Idol finalist in 1618 noted for the bling on his black buckle shoes. He was disqualified after the Puritans discovered him drinking spiked Red Bull, though, so he sailed to Virginia where he met Pocahontas, a busty cartoon character who sang cheesy theme songs with a talking raccoon.”
The youngest of the three children delivered the final blow. “And Grammy Z is going to teach us sex education next week.”
“Hurry up! You’ll be late for the school bus,” said their learned father, as he pushed his kids safely out the door.
I’m very concerned about cutbacks in education so I’m considering home schooling my children. Do you think this is a good idea?
Amanda from Newbury
Dear Amanda,
A few months back, my husband introduced just such an idea.
“I think the kids might benefit from home schooling,” he said. “I mean, you’re home all day anyway with that writing thing you do. And your sister thought it was a good idea.”
“Your words are a knife in my back,” I said to him.
“It’s not meant to…are you speaking with an Italian accent?” he asked.
“You’re dead to me,” I declared and went into the kitchen to cook Veal Braciola but not before calling my sister.
“I know it was you, Fredo,” I said to her answering machine then I hung up the phone to search for my garlic press.
That night at dinner my kids asked for their father.
“He sleeps with the fishes,” I told them. “Eat your veal.”
“Mom, you have to stop killing Dad. It’s getting old,” said my young teenager.
I decided to come clean and tell them about their father’s suggestion to be home schooled. But before I could say “fugedaboudit!” my kids were out the back door digging up their father and carrying him around on their shoulders chanting “Daddy’s Great! Daddy’s Great!” Clearly they were attached to the man. I had to seek my revenge another way.
Two weeks later, my husband asked his five-year old what he was learning “in school.”
“Lots of things, Dad. Mom’s a great teacher.”
Smug and confident, his father continued his probe. “What subjects are you learning? Math?”
“Oh no,” said the boy. “Mom says math is bull@#$%.”
The father choked on his morning coffee. “We don’t use that word, son,” he explained, trying to compose himself.
“Mom does – all the time. And lots of other words too, like #$*&, ^%#@#$ and @#^^&%$#. She says vocabulary is very important in life.”
The father’s middle child entered the room. “Don’t worry, Dad. We’re also learning a lot about history. Like about Billy the Kid. Yeah, he was this teenage boy turned gunslinger who was notoriously recognized as Demi Moore’s boyfriend before her first plastic surgery full-body restoration in 1878.”
“Yeah,” said the oldest, joining the discussion, “And we’re learning about Queen Elizabeth. She was offered gifts from kings and princes far and wide in return for her hand in marriage, including a lifetime supply of Manolo Blahnik shoes from the Italian king. Mom said this was tempting because Elizabeth loved her glam, but she was not the kind of girl to let a man slip into her empire.”
“And John Smith,” continued the middle child. “He was an American Idol finalist in 1618 noted for the bling on his black buckle shoes. He was disqualified after the Puritans discovered him drinking spiked Red Bull, though, so he sailed to Virginia where he met Pocahontas, a busty cartoon character who sang cheesy theme songs with a talking raccoon.”
The youngest of the three children delivered the final blow. “And Grammy Z is going to teach us sex education next week.”
“Hurry up! You’ll be late for the school bus,” said their learned father, as he pushed his kids safely out the door.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Happily Ever After
Dear Zen Mother,
I’m a little down now that it is March. There are no holidays this time of year. What is there to celebrate?
Toni from Newburyport
Dear Toni,
Coincidentally, today is a little known holiday called “I Want to Make You Happy Day.” It’s true. Every March 3rd, I Want to Make You Happy Day encourages people to make other people happy even if feeling tired or down. I used to celebrate this holiday every year with my family. It was a time when my husband and kids planned enviable activities such as midnight ice fishing, Jean-Claude Van Damme movie marathons and Fantasy Football extravaganzas. In the spirit of the holiday, I would grit my teeth, clean up the spilled soda and say, “I just want to make you happy.”
But on the eve of this holiday, about three years ago, I received a major wake-up call.
“Snow White? Is that you?” I said into the midnight darkness, rubbing my eyes at the vision.
“Yes, it’s me. And I’ve come to tell you to stop celebrating I Want to Make You Happy Day. It’s not worth it. Take it from me.”
“But you found your prince and lived happily ever after,” I said. “By the way, you look fabulous,” marveling at her glowing skin.
“Oh, thanks. It’s the digitally-enhanced animation. But honestly, that good for nothin’ prince was only looking for a castle maid. Seems he was impressed with my ability to make those seven little creeps so frickin’ happy all the time with my cooking and cleaning. So look, Toots, you need to find a middle ground.”
Snow White vanished before I could respond. I brushed off the vision as a crazy dream and rolled over to catch some more sleep before waking up at 5:00 a.m. to bake 206 varieties of cookies from scratch. But my sleep was short lived.
“Hey, you there, what’s this?” I heard someone ask. I opened my eyes to see Gloria Steinem next to my bed.
“Gloria? What are you doing here?”
“Just answer the question. What do you see in my hand?”
“It’s a VHS copy of the 1975 version of Stepford Wives with the beautiful Katharine Ross,” I responded.
“Correct!” Gloria shouted, then slapped me across the face with it.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“For thinking you can make your family happy by giving up your own needs and dreams, not to mention your responsibility as a parent to sometimes say no.”
I wondered if she saw the turbo pogo sticks, gun-o-matics and trampoline on her way in.
“But I want to make them happy,” I said.
Another slap.
“Ouch! Will you quit it?” But Gloria had left and all I saw was a child in the corner.
“Who are you, little girl?” I asked.
“I’m your granddaughter from the future. But I grow up with no self-worth and an eating disorder worthy of an Olsen twin because I had no strong female role models in my life. And math is hard, according to my Barbie doll.”
“OK, that’s it!” The little girl disappeared as I jumped out of bed. The sun was rising. I opened the window and shouted to an early morning jogger.
“You, boy, what day is it?”
“Why, it’s March 3rd, Miss.”
Giddy with relief and joy, I grabbed some loose change from my husband’s bureau and threw it to the boy. “Run down to the Bumble Bee Market and grab me some Chips Ahoy,” I told him – because I’m not baking today. I don’t care what day it is.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Karmedians and other cosmic jokes
Dear Zen Mother,
Could you explain Karma to me? I hear it thrown around a lot in conversation but I’m not sure I really understand it.
Mimi from Amesbury
Dear Mimi,
Well, according to my Eastern Religion for Dummies handbook, Karma encompasses both cause and effect by looking at all your deeds from the past, present and future, including things you have done in previous lifetimes as someone or something else. In other words, Karma is the Sanskrit word for “you’re screwed.”
Before you dismiss this notion as a whole lot of hooey, here’s a recent experience I had with a psychic, or as he prefers, perpetual life coach.
“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked.
“You tell me. You’re the psychic,” I said, elbowing him and snorting at my own humor.
“Yeah, like I haven’t heard that before. OK, Mrs. Z, if you want proof of my clairvoyance, here goes. You left the house with kids in tow at 7:55 a.m. except one of your boys was still in the bathroom washing the dog with his toothbrush. Later you went grocery shopping only to realize in Checkout Lane #7 you were still in your pajamas, flannel with flying pigs – cute. You returned home to work on your next column, due yesterday, but instead turned on the TV hoping you hadn’t missed “Judge Judy.” Would you like me to go on?”
Humbled and embarrassed, I said no. “Umm, could you tell me about my past lives instead?”
I expected him to burn sage, light a candle and fall into a deep meditation or deal a series of Tarot cards in front of me but he simply stared. His eyes became critical and his mouth revealed a disapproving sneer. I straightened up, lifted my chin and crossed my ankles, hoping this would help release my past life as Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn. I waited.
“You were an avocado,” he said, finally.
“Pardon?”
“A-vo-ca-do.” The word dripped from his mouth like venom.
“What is that…a joke? You think you’re some kind of comedian?”
“It’s not a joke, but don’t worry, you reincarnated as a flea in 504 B.C.”
“Oh, you’re a riot. I suppose next you’ll tell me that I was once a goat.”
“Well, yes, but it took you a while to earn that life. Some of the decisions you made as a flea were questionable.”
“What about my sister?” thinking at least I could get my money’s worth by wallowing in one of her past lowly existences.
“She was Audrey Hepburn. That’ll be $175. No personal checks. I know what’s in your bank account.”
I couldn’t speak. I’d just spent $175 to be insulted and demeaned. I rushed out of the psychic’s office and across the street, reeling from the experience.
“Wait!” I heard him yell. “You forgot your purse.”
He stepped out from the entranceway, tripped and stumbled into a pedestrian who pushed him to the curb where a bike messenger bounced him into the street. The psychic then jumped to his left to avoid an oncoming Mini Cooper…only to be run over by an eighteen-wheeler coming from the other direction.
Hmmm, I thought to myself, I guess there is something to this karma business after all. I walked over to where he lay, picked up my purse and went home to watch “Judge Judy.”
Could you explain Karma to me? I hear it thrown around a lot in conversation but I’m not sure I really understand it.
Mimi from Amesbury
Dear Mimi,
Well, according to my Eastern Religion for Dummies handbook, Karma encompasses both cause and effect by looking at all your deeds from the past, present and future, including things you have done in previous lifetimes as someone or something else. In other words, Karma is the Sanskrit word for “you’re screwed.”
Before you dismiss this notion as a whole lot of hooey, here’s a recent experience I had with a psychic, or as he prefers, perpetual life coach.
“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked.
“You tell me. You’re the psychic,” I said, elbowing him and snorting at my own humor.
“Yeah, like I haven’t heard that before. OK, Mrs. Z, if you want proof of my clairvoyance, here goes. You left the house with kids in tow at 7:55 a.m. except one of your boys was still in the bathroom washing the dog with his toothbrush. Later you went grocery shopping only to realize in Checkout Lane #7 you were still in your pajamas, flannel with flying pigs – cute. You returned home to work on your next column, due yesterday, but instead turned on the TV hoping you hadn’t missed “Judge Judy.” Would you like me to go on?”
Humbled and embarrassed, I said no. “Umm, could you tell me about my past lives instead?”
I expected him to burn sage, light a candle and fall into a deep meditation or deal a series of Tarot cards in front of me but he simply stared. His eyes became critical and his mouth revealed a disapproving sneer. I straightened up, lifted my chin and crossed my ankles, hoping this would help release my past life as Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn. I waited.
“You were an avocado,” he said, finally.
“Pardon?”
“A-vo-ca-do.” The word dripped from his mouth like venom.
“What is that…a joke? You think you’re some kind of comedian?”
“It’s not a joke, but don’t worry, you reincarnated as a flea in 504 B.C.”
“Oh, you’re a riot. I suppose next you’ll tell me that I was once a goat.”
“Well, yes, but it took you a while to earn that life. Some of the decisions you made as a flea were questionable.”
“What about my sister?” thinking at least I could get my money’s worth by wallowing in one of her past lowly existences.
“She was Audrey Hepburn. That’ll be $175. No personal checks. I know what’s in your bank account.”
I couldn’t speak. I’d just spent $175 to be insulted and demeaned. I rushed out of the psychic’s office and across the street, reeling from the experience.
“Wait!” I heard him yell. “You forgot your purse.”
He stepped out from the entranceway, tripped and stumbled into a pedestrian who pushed him to the curb where a bike messenger bounced him into the street. The psychic then jumped to his left to avoid an oncoming Mini Cooper…only to be run over by an eighteen-wheeler coming from the other direction.
Hmmm, I thought to myself, I guess there is something to this karma business after all. I walked over to where he lay, picked up my purse and went home to watch “Judge Judy.”
Thursday, February 16, 2006
The Junk Drawer
Dear Zen Mother,
My bride and I recently purchased our first home. I was perplexed to discover she immediately designated a drawer in our kitchen as the “junk drawer.” As a bachelor, everything I owned had its place and junk was thrown away. Could you explain this notion to me?
Dan from Newbury
Dear Dan,
The junk drawer plays a vital role in any home. As a newly married couple with no children, your junk drawer looks drastically different from that of a married couple of 12 years with, say, 19 children (my husband insists I only have three kids but that’s impossible).
For example, your junk drawer probably contains an extra set of keys to your Audi, emergency phone numbers for the dog sitter, personalized leather luggage tags from your bank (they love you), extra batteries for your Blackberry, several paper clips and a take-out menu from Joppa Fine Foods.
My junk drawer contains keys of various shapes and sizes. Since none of these keys open any doors in my house or belong to any vehicle, I can only assume they are the keys to Al Capone’s safe, the public bathrooms in the lost city of Atlantis and the back gate to Area 51. My junk drawer also contains the names and phone numbers of babysitters scared away in the last decade, a foam drink holder from my bank (they hate me) and several dead cell phones in need of batteries.
In fact, the contents of my junk drawer are now multiplying like something in a B horror film, spilling onto the kitchen floor, making a left at the back stairs, burping into the playroom and oozing under the basement door. But aside from these obvious aesthetics, the junk drawer also plays a valuable role for the busy mom.
In a world of “Mom, where’s this; Mom, where’s that?” we busy moms can use the junk drawer to catch several seconds of peace.
“Mom, where’s my hairbrush?” I’m going online where no one can possibly see me but my hair needs to be perfect.
“Check the junk drawer.” Mommy’s busy sending an email to I_can’t_believe_my_life has_come_to_this.com.
“Mom, do you have any string?” I’d like to trap my little brother in a giant spider web so he can’t reach the remote control.
“Check the junk drawer.” Mommy’s busy writing her novel about a woman with 19 children who slowly descends into madness.
“Mom, I owe Nick thirteen dollars. Do you have it?” Since money magically grows in your purse I’ll be able to siphon off of you for the rest of my life.
“Check the junk drawer.” Mommy’s busy planning her escape by pitching a bottled message out the kitchen window and into the nearby stream.
Unfortunately, we do not live by a stream but when spring comes and I hear my husband say, “What the…?” upon hitting several glass bottles with his lawn mower and reading the enclosed “Help Me! I’m being held hostage by cloying, life-sucking people claiming to be my family,” I’ll simply shrug my shoulders and tip my head toward Grammy Z.
So let your bride have a junk drawer. It may one day hold the key to a little sanity.
Zen Mother appears weekly in The Newburyport Current. Do you have a question or topic for Zen Mother? Send it to editor@zenmother.com. She’d love to hear from you.
My bride and I recently purchased our first home. I was perplexed to discover she immediately designated a drawer in our kitchen as the “junk drawer.” As a bachelor, everything I owned had its place and junk was thrown away. Could you explain this notion to me?
Dan from Newbury
Dear Dan,
The junk drawer plays a vital role in any home. As a newly married couple with no children, your junk drawer looks drastically different from that of a married couple of 12 years with, say, 19 children (my husband insists I only have three kids but that’s impossible).
For example, your junk drawer probably contains an extra set of keys to your Audi, emergency phone numbers for the dog sitter, personalized leather luggage tags from your bank (they love you), extra batteries for your Blackberry, several paper clips and a take-out menu from Joppa Fine Foods.
My junk drawer contains keys of various shapes and sizes. Since none of these keys open any doors in my house or belong to any vehicle, I can only assume they are the keys to Al Capone’s safe, the public bathrooms in the lost city of Atlantis and the back gate to Area 51. My junk drawer also contains the names and phone numbers of babysitters scared away in the last decade, a foam drink holder from my bank (they hate me) and several dead cell phones in need of batteries.
In fact, the contents of my junk drawer are now multiplying like something in a B horror film, spilling onto the kitchen floor, making a left at the back stairs, burping into the playroom and oozing under the basement door. But aside from these obvious aesthetics, the junk drawer also plays a valuable role for the busy mom.
In a world of “Mom, where’s this; Mom, where’s that?” we busy moms can use the junk drawer to catch several seconds of peace.
“Mom, where’s my hairbrush?” I’m going online where no one can possibly see me but my hair needs to be perfect.
“Check the junk drawer.” Mommy’s busy sending an email to I_can’t_believe_my_life has_come_to_this.com.
“Mom, do you have any string?” I’d like to trap my little brother in a giant spider web so he can’t reach the remote control.
“Check the junk drawer.” Mommy’s busy writing her novel about a woman with 19 children who slowly descends into madness.
“Mom, I owe Nick thirteen dollars. Do you have it?” Since money magically grows in your purse I’ll be able to siphon off of you for the rest of my life.
“Check the junk drawer.” Mommy’s busy planning her escape by pitching a bottled message out the kitchen window and into the nearby stream.
Unfortunately, we do not live by a stream but when spring comes and I hear my husband say, “What the…?” upon hitting several glass bottles with his lawn mower and reading the enclosed “Help Me! I’m being held hostage by cloying, life-sucking people claiming to be my family,” I’ll simply shrug my shoulders and tip my head toward Grammy Z.
So let your bride have a junk drawer. It may one day hold the key to a little sanity.
Zen Mother appears weekly in The Newburyport Current. Do you have a question or topic for Zen Mother? Send it to editor@zenmother.com. She’d love to hear from you.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
The British Invasion
Dear Zen Mother,
I have a family reunion coming up and I am dreading it! Any advice to help me survive the weekend?
Sarah from Newburyport
Dear Sarah,
Cry me a river, you big baby. You can’t spend 48 hours with people who love you and are interested in you? Well, Boo Hoo!
I’m sorry; you’ll have to excuse me. Grammy Z, the High Priestess of Insulting Behavior, moved in with us recently and it has been quite an adjustment. We took her in because the kids have grown fond of her the way they’ve embraced the stray dog that hangs around at their bus stop – smells odd, bites sometimes but is kinda fun to have around.
My husband and I, on the other hand, view Grammy Z like the navy blue sock that lives in the back hallway. It’s always there but nobody wants to claim it.
“Isn’t she related to you?” I asked my husband.
“No, I thought she was your relative,” he replied.
Puzzlement abounds.
And then there’s the accent. When Grammy Z drinks (early and often) she adopts a British accent (by way of Trenton, New Jersey) and dons a tiara. She believes her husband is dead (alive and well living in an undisclosed location) and thinks everything is better with Lipton onion soup mix. But that’s not all. Last night, we received a call from Scotland Yard.
“Mrs. Z, this is Inspector Reynolds. I’m calling to inform you that your houseguest, Grammy Z, has been sending naked pictures of herself to Prince Philip. And quite frankly, these are the most disturbing images we’ve ever seen here at the Yard. Her Majesty the Queen would like Grammy Z to stop immediately or we will have to take action.”
I called my sister for emotional support.
“She needs you and you need her. There is a lesson to be learned from this journey and we will all be better for it,” my sister said.
“Well, then, why doesn’t she come live with you? Hello? Hello?”
Puzzlement abounds.
I searched out my husband but not before seeing a camera flash from beneath the bathroom door. I tried the doorknob but it was locked. Another flash.
“I’m on to you, woman! You need to stop sending those pictures!”
“How dare you address the Queen in her privy chamber,” Grammy Z yelled back. I continued searching for my husband determined to get a blood sample.
“That crazy nut is from your side of the family,” he said to me. “And I have the proof.”
There it was. An old photograph of me in a tub being bathed by Grammy Z, a cigarette deftly balanced on her lower lip, her tiara sitting askew on my head. I took the photograph and walked upstairs to find Grammy Z giving my kids a bath. The boys were taking turns wearing her tiara as she washed their hair. They were singing “God Save the Queen” and “I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts” at the top of their lungs. I became filled with happy memories. The puzzle was solved. And later that night, as I pulled bits of onion soup mix from my children’s hair, I realized everyone in the family has something to offer.
Zen Mother appears weekly in The Newburyport Current. Do you have a question or topic for Zen Mother? Send it to editor@zenmother.com. She’d love to hear from you.
I have a family reunion coming up and I am dreading it! Any advice to help me survive the weekend?
Sarah from Newburyport
Dear Sarah,
Cry me a river, you big baby. You can’t spend 48 hours with people who love you and are interested in you? Well, Boo Hoo!
I’m sorry; you’ll have to excuse me. Grammy Z, the High Priestess of Insulting Behavior, moved in with us recently and it has been quite an adjustment. We took her in because the kids have grown fond of her the way they’ve embraced the stray dog that hangs around at their bus stop – smells odd, bites sometimes but is kinda fun to have around.
My husband and I, on the other hand, view Grammy Z like the navy blue sock that lives in the back hallway. It’s always there but nobody wants to claim it.
“Isn’t she related to you?” I asked my husband.
“No, I thought she was your relative,” he replied.
Puzzlement abounds.
And then there’s the accent. When Grammy Z drinks (early and often) she adopts a British accent (by way of Trenton, New Jersey) and dons a tiara. She believes her husband is dead (alive and well living in an undisclosed location) and thinks everything is better with Lipton onion soup mix. But that’s not all. Last night, we received a call from Scotland Yard.
“Mrs. Z, this is Inspector Reynolds. I’m calling to inform you that your houseguest, Grammy Z, has been sending naked pictures of herself to Prince Philip. And quite frankly, these are the most disturbing images we’ve ever seen here at the Yard. Her Majesty the Queen would like Grammy Z to stop immediately or we will have to take action.”
I called my sister for emotional support.
“She needs you and you need her. There is a lesson to be learned from this journey and we will all be better for it,” my sister said.
“Well, then, why doesn’t she come live with you? Hello? Hello?”
Puzzlement abounds.
I searched out my husband but not before seeing a camera flash from beneath the bathroom door. I tried the doorknob but it was locked. Another flash.
“I’m on to you, woman! You need to stop sending those pictures!”
“How dare you address the Queen in her privy chamber,” Grammy Z yelled back. I continued searching for my husband determined to get a blood sample.
“That crazy nut is from your side of the family,” he said to me. “And I have the proof.”
There it was. An old photograph of me in a tub being bathed by Grammy Z, a cigarette deftly balanced on her lower lip, her tiara sitting askew on my head. I took the photograph and walked upstairs to find Grammy Z giving my kids a bath. The boys were taking turns wearing her tiara as she washed their hair. They were singing “God Save the Queen” and “I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts” at the top of their lungs. I became filled with happy memories. The puzzle was solved. And later that night, as I pulled bits of onion soup mix from my children’s hair, I realized everyone in the family has something to offer.
Zen Mother appears weekly in The Newburyport Current. Do you have a question or topic for Zen Mother? Send it to editor@zenmother.com. She’d love to hear from you.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Calling in Sick
I’m not writing a column today. My head’s in a vise and someone installed wall-to-wall carpeting on my tongue. My eyes resemble those of the dead fish in my kids’ aquarium (Don’t worry boys, Mr. Fish Sticks is just taking a very long nap). My bones crackle when I move and my palms are sweaty.
My husband “the doctor” is not understanding at all. “Get out of the house,” he says.
“You get out!” I say.
“No, no, that’s not what I mean,” he explains. “Activity is good for what ails you. You should do something.”
So I kill him, which is really unfortunate because someone needs to walk the dog.
I call my kids together and tell them to stay out of trouble while mommy gets some rest. This is absolutely the wrong thing to say to children under any circumstance but my head is filled with cotton and there is a little man with a power drill behind my left ear. My kids love it when I’m sick. Their eyes light up and their little cupid lips curl at the corners. It’s their opportunity to do things I would never allow them to do under normal, healthy conditions.
“Mom, can I take fifty dollars out of your wallet, bike down the high speed lane of Rt. 1A with Joey the school punk and shoot paint balls at convertible BMWs?”
“OK,” I mumble from under my pillow. “Be home in time for dinner.”
My husband, eerily resurrected says, “It’s the common cold. You’ll live.”
“There’s nothing common about it,” I say, swallowing half a bottle of Benedryl and chasing it with some liquid Tylenol.
“It’s just the sniffles,” he persists so I kill him again. But this time I wait until after he takes out the garbage.
I crawl downstairs to watch TV but run out of steam halfway there. I curl up in a nice, dark corner of the front hall closet, my head resting on the Electrolux.
A vision of my husband opens the closet door. “Why is it that when men are sick, you women say we are the biggest babies in the world and when you are sick it is the sickest sickness ever?” he asks.
“God, die already. Who are you, Rasputin?”
“Why don’t you put on a coat and go for a walk,” he says.
Still crouched in the closet, I search for his black cashmere dress coat and blow my nose on its sleeve. “Because I’m sick!” I tell him.
My husband pulls me out of the closet and tries to smooth the tangled hair in the back of my head. “C’mon, I’ll walk with you,” he says and leads me to the front door. His arm is steady and his chest is warm. He smells of cinnamon and pine. I breathe in his chivalry and embrace his kindness. This is what I need, just a little TLC from my soul mate. I agree to go but not before grabbing an ice pick from the bar, just in case.
So I am not writing a column today.
Zen Mother appears weekly in The Newburyport Current. Do you have a question or topic for Zen Mother? Send it to editor@zenmother.com. She’d love to hear from you.
My husband “the doctor” is not understanding at all. “Get out of the house,” he says.
“You get out!” I say.
“No, no, that’s not what I mean,” he explains. “Activity is good for what ails you. You should do something.”
So I kill him, which is really unfortunate because someone needs to walk the dog.
I call my kids together and tell them to stay out of trouble while mommy gets some rest. This is absolutely the wrong thing to say to children under any circumstance but my head is filled with cotton and there is a little man with a power drill behind my left ear. My kids love it when I’m sick. Their eyes light up and their little cupid lips curl at the corners. It’s their opportunity to do things I would never allow them to do under normal, healthy conditions.
“Mom, can I take fifty dollars out of your wallet, bike down the high speed lane of Rt. 1A with Joey the school punk and shoot paint balls at convertible BMWs?”
“OK,” I mumble from under my pillow. “Be home in time for dinner.”
My husband, eerily resurrected says, “It’s the common cold. You’ll live.”
“There’s nothing common about it,” I say, swallowing half a bottle of Benedryl and chasing it with some liquid Tylenol.
“It’s just the sniffles,” he persists so I kill him again. But this time I wait until after he takes out the garbage.
I crawl downstairs to watch TV but run out of steam halfway there. I curl up in a nice, dark corner of the front hall closet, my head resting on the Electrolux.
A vision of my husband opens the closet door. “Why is it that when men are sick, you women say we are the biggest babies in the world and when you are sick it is the sickest sickness ever?” he asks.
“God, die already. Who are you, Rasputin?”
“Why don’t you put on a coat and go for a walk,” he says.
Still crouched in the closet, I search for his black cashmere dress coat and blow my nose on its sleeve. “Because I’m sick!” I tell him.
My husband pulls me out of the closet and tries to smooth the tangled hair in the back of my head. “C’mon, I’ll walk with you,” he says and leads me to the front door. His arm is steady and his chest is warm. He smells of cinnamon and pine. I breathe in his chivalry and embrace his kindness. This is what I need, just a little TLC from my soul mate. I agree to go but not before grabbing an ice pick from the bar, just in case.
So I am not writing a column today.
Zen Mother appears weekly in The Newburyport Current. Do you have a question or topic for Zen Mother? Send it to editor@zenmother.com. She’d love to hear from you.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Low Carb and Cranky
Dear Zen Mother,
Like so many, I am hoping to lose weight for my New Year’s resolution. What type of diet should I choose?
- Alicia from Amesbury
Dear Alicia,
We torture ourselves with the latest diet fads only to realize these fads never live up to their promises. It’s not what we eat, or how we eat it but how much we eat. We simply eat too much food.
Compare the size of a take-out sandwich to one when I was growing up in the sixties. Back then, you had a slice of meat and a slice of cheese between two thin slices of bread. Now, they hand you a sandwich that’s big enough to come with a birth certificate. Congratulations, Mrs. Z. Here is your bouncing pastrami on rye. Do you need help getting it to your car?
Whatever diet you choose, please don’t eliminate all carbohydrates. Those crunchy, chewy creations coming out of the ovens at Annarosa’s Bakery are responsible for the “feel good” chemical, serotonin. Without these starches in your diet and an ongoing production of serotonin, you can become very cranky, very fast. Here’s a conversation I overheard between two close friends that quickly eroded over a low carb luncheon.
“Darling! So good to see you. You are looking fabulous!”
“Well, thanks, sweetheart. I had a Botox enema on Tuesday and my derriere has never been tighter!”
“You go, girlfriend! Should we order? Oh, and do you mind if I ask the waitress to remove the bread basket?”
“Low carb convert?”
“Low carb and loving it!”
(two rib-eye steaks with no potatoes and a side of cauliflower later)
“I’ve got the whole family eating low carb now.”
“Well, they must be thrilled not to suffer through your Baked Ziti anymore.”
“A bit like suffering through your homemade pizza, I suppose. Whatever possessed you to install that overpriced brick oven anyway? More sparkling water, dear?”
“You’re just bitter because you can’t afford to renovate your kitchen. That’s ok, honey. Your appliances are so outdated they’re considered “retro.” Could you pass the Splenda?”
“I’m bitter? You should inject that packet of Splenda directly into your bloodstream with all the bitterness coursing through your veins.”
Snort
“I’m sorry, was that a snort?”
“No, why?”
“I thought I heard you snort.”
“No.”
“Because I heard a snort.”
“I don’t care what you heard. I didn’t snort! Only pigs like you snort.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard what I said. You little whore!”
“What? How dare you! I think we all know who’s been playing the role of whore around here.”
“THAT’S IT. I’M OUTTA HERE. AND BY THE WAY, YOUR HUSBAND STINKS IN BED!”
“FUNNY, BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT HE SAYS ABOUT YOU!!”
(Low carb ex-friend storms out of the restaurant)
“Waitress, a vodka martini, please! AND BRING ME MY BREAD BASKET!!!”
Zen Mother appears weekly in The Newburyport Current. Do you have a question or topic for Zen Mother? Send it to editor@zenmother.com. She’d love to hear from you.
Like so many, I am hoping to lose weight for my New Year’s resolution. What type of diet should I choose?
- Alicia from Amesbury
Dear Alicia,
We torture ourselves with the latest diet fads only to realize these fads never live up to their promises. It’s not what we eat, or how we eat it but how much we eat. We simply eat too much food.
Compare the size of a take-out sandwich to one when I was growing up in the sixties. Back then, you had a slice of meat and a slice of cheese between two thin slices of bread. Now, they hand you a sandwich that’s big enough to come with a birth certificate. Congratulations, Mrs. Z. Here is your bouncing pastrami on rye. Do you need help getting it to your car?
Whatever diet you choose, please don’t eliminate all carbohydrates. Those crunchy, chewy creations coming out of the ovens at Annarosa’s Bakery are responsible for the “feel good” chemical, serotonin. Without these starches in your diet and an ongoing production of serotonin, you can become very cranky, very fast. Here’s a conversation I overheard between two close friends that quickly eroded over a low carb luncheon.
“Darling! So good to see you. You are looking fabulous!”
“Well, thanks, sweetheart. I had a Botox enema on Tuesday and my derriere has never been tighter!”
“You go, girlfriend! Should we order? Oh, and do you mind if I ask the waitress to remove the bread basket?”
“Low carb convert?”
“Low carb and loving it!”
(two rib-eye steaks with no potatoes and a side of cauliflower later)
“I’ve got the whole family eating low carb now.”
“Well, they must be thrilled not to suffer through your Baked Ziti anymore.”
“A bit like suffering through your homemade pizza, I suppose. Whatever possessed you to install that overpriced brick oven anyway? More sparkling water, dear?”
“You’re just bitter because you can’t afford to renovate your kitchen. That’s ok, honey. Your appliances are so outdated they’re considered “retro.” Could you pass the Splenda?”
“I’m bitter? You should inject that packet of Splenda directly into your bloodstream with all the bitterness coursing through your veins.”
Snort
“I’m sorry, was that a snort?”
“No, why?”
“I thought I heard you snort.”
“No.”
“Because I heard a snort.”
“I don’t care what you heard. I didn’t snort! Only pigs like you snort.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard what I said. You little whore!”
“What? How dare you! I think we all know who’s been playing the role of whore around here.”
“THAT’S IT. I’M OUTTA HERE. AND BY THE WAY, YOUR HUSBAND STINKS IN BED!”
“FUNNY, BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT HE SAYS ABOUT YOU!!”
(Low carb ex-friend storms out of the restaurant)
“Waitress, a vodka martini, please! AND BRING ME MY BREAD BASKET!!!”
Zen Mother appears weekly in The Newburyport Current. Do you have a question or topic for Zen Mother? Send it to editor@zenmother.com. She’d love to hear from you.
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