The Smoking Tub

I started smoking cigarettes regularly when I was 16.  I was good at hiding it, for the most part.  I would run errands for my parents, and while out, I would take long drives out in the boonies, which is basically where we lived anyways.  Just me and my Camel Lights, on the back country roads.

I finally mustered up the courage to come out to my parents my freshman year of college.  I was home for fall break, and left the pack of Marlboro Lights (the new college brand) on the kitchen table.  I figured, since I was no longer living under their roof, there wasn't much they could say.  I could not have been more wrong.  They both managed to fit the subject into every phone conversation.

I kept promising my parents and myself I would quit smoking.  When I graduate from college.  When I get a grown-up job.  When I get married.  I was lying to myself for so long that I believed what I was saying.  I decided that if I didn’t quit before I got married, when would I?  Nothing says “blushing bride” like a girl smoking a Parliament Light in her wedding dress.

Day one started early when the alarm went off at 6:30am.  Before I could open my eyes, I felt a smack on my upper arm.  That damn “patch”.  Dave wanted me to quit as much as anyone.  “You can do it, Mery.”  What did he know?  He is the type of person who can smoke a pack of cigarettes in one night, then not have another drag for 2 years.  I was already grumpy and my feet hadn’t hit the floor yet.

The first couple weeks were really rough.  I would survive the day smoke-free, all the while putting everything into my mouth that wasn’t nailed down.  Not the brightest technique when the wedding dress is already paid for and altered.  I had 4 months until Dave and I were bonded for life.  At this rate, I was going to have to buy a second dress in the same size and sew them together.  I also neglected to mention that Dave was on the Atkins diet so while I was blowing up, he was melting away.  The stress of it all was really getting to me.

One warm September evening I was upstairs in our bathroom when Dave came home from work.  I could hear him walking up the creaky wooden steps of our duplex apartment.  Suddenly there was a knock at the bathroom door and he said, “Mery?”  I answered, “Yes?”  Dave paused.  “What are you doing in there?” 

OK, this is the part that may offend some.  From my perspective, as well as Dave’s, when you have been with a person for so many years, there are very few secrets.  Even less shame.  There is never a closed door in our house, unless we have company. 

“What are you doing in there?  Why is the door closed?”  I giggled and answered, “What do you think I am doing?  I am going to the bathroom!”  He opened the door just a smidgen to discover I was not on the toilet.  “Where are you?”  I said nothing.  Dave walked into the bathroom and pulled back the shower curtain.  There I was, a can of Glade air freshener in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other, standing by the open window, in our bathtub.

“What are you, 15?”  Dave asked as he was trying not to crack a smile.  “What is the matter with you?”  I didn’t know what was wrong with me.  I had hit a new low.  Humiliated and humbled, I stepped out of the tub.  My fiancé was now full out laughing at me. 

I confessed.  I had been smoking again for almost 2 weeks.  I had quit for 6 weeks or more, but cracked under the pressure.   Fortunately, I managed to fit into my wedding dress.  Unfortunately, I was smoking again.  I just needed to get through the wedding, then I would quit…about 6 more times.

This May Sting a Little

Being married to Dave means I have to put up with all of his flaws.  I would never admit it to him, but I think he has to put up with a lot more than I do.    I am not the easiest person to cohabitate and share a life with.  Most of the time I have good intentions, but they don’t always turn out well.

I decided to take a whole week off from work to redo both of our sons’ bedrooms.   I thought this would give me plenty of time to accomplish my goals, while being able to take a 2 hour nap every day.  It was time off, after all.  I did the taping and most of the painting, and Dave helped with the more mechanical issues, like light fixtures and electrical sockets.  One room’s outlets were fine, but Zach’s room needed new outlets to match the rest of his room.  We went from dingy wheat color to bright white.

I was sure to get the room in tip top shape before calling in Contractor Dave.  I knew he would be critical of my work and didn’t want to hear how I got paint on the carpet, or missed a spot in the closet.  I picked up the tarps covering the floor and vacuumed the room.  He came into the room and said, “Wow, this looks really good.  You even did great work on the trim.”  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to paint a few walls, but I graciously accepted his accolades. 

It was now his turn to contribute to the project.  I was his lovely assistant.  I got to unscrew all the face plates while he removed the new outlets from their packaging.  Meaning, I was moving about the room removing 23 year old face plates while he was stationary opening plastic bags.   

Zach’s window is on the back of the house right above the circuit breaker box.  Dave went downstairs to turn of the circuit in Zach’s room, and my job was to tell him when it was off.  Easy enough.  I left the vacuum plugged into one of the outlets and after a few switches, it powered down.  I yelled to Dave and he returned to the second floor.

I was sitting next to him on the carpet when he went in to detach the first outlet with his trusty flathead screwdriver.  As he went in for his surgical outlectomy, the screwdriver touched a wire and ZZZZZZAP!   Dave had just been charged like a battery.  “What the FUDGE, Mery??  Are you trying to kill me?”  For those of you who know Dave, you know he did NOT use the word “fudge.”   I was stunned…and laughing, “I’m sorry!  The vacuum is still off and plugged into the other wall!” 

So, what are the odds that there would be two circuits for one bedroom?  I turned my head to see the light in Zach’s closet was still on!  Oops.  I just kept laughing, because that’s what I do when I get nervous.  I pointed to the closet which was less than 2 feet from us both.  The next 20 minutes was a lecture on the danger of electricity and how you need to “always check and recheck” before messing around with wires.  I said I was sorry, what more did he want?

Raise Your Hand

First grade was difficult for Zachary.  The academics were basically a breeze for him; it was his teacher who proved to be the challenge.  In an effort to protect the innocent, we will call Zach’s teacher Mrs. Jenkins.  Mrs. Jenkins was a 23 year old newbie, in her second year of teaching elementary school, fresh out of college.  She was a newlywed, living hours from her family in another state.  I imagine when you are right out of college and teaching, you are prepared to give it your all, with fresh ideas and a love of children.  Zach managed to strip all of that away in one short academic year.

In our defense, we did warn her.  My husband and I even told her to talk to his Kindergarten teacher, a veteran, about ideas to keep him in check.  From a young age, we knew Zach had the makings of a cross between Bart Simpson and Dennis the Menace.  When he got in trouble at home, he would actually get to the naughty step before we even told him to go.  He would calculate risk vs. reward before doing something he was not supposed to, and if he felt it was worth it, he’d do it.

Zach was just downright naughty in Mrs. Jenkins’ class.  On a color grading scale, he would receive a “red dot” in his planner daily.  It was always for something little.  He was talking out of turn, not raising his hand, touching a wall in the hallway while standing in line to go to the cafeteria, or distracting other students when it was time to do some real work.  I don’t think a week went by when he did not have at least one red dot in a week.  No method of threatening or punishment worked for us or Mrs. Jenkins.  I would receive nasty-grams home on a consistent basis.

I was at work on a Tuesday, finishing up a report I had to get done in the next hour.  My phone rang, and it was from an area code only associated with the school system, at the time.  I could feel the lump in my throat and my face heating up even before I answered the phone.

“This is Merydith, how can I help you?” I said with trepidation in my voice to the unknown caller on the other end of the line.  “Hi Mrs. Blank, this is Ms. Q, the assistant principal at Zachary’s school.  How are you?”  Was she kidding?  How was I?  I was freaking out!  “I’m well thank you?”  Ms. Q proceeded, “I have Zachary here in my office, he’s fine, but there was an incident in his classroom today.”  You have got to be kidding me.

After lunch on Tuesday, the class went out for their regularly schedule recess, and then made their way back to the classroom.  They were getting ready to do something as a group on the carpet.  Mrs. Jenkins asked everyone to take their assigned place on the carpet and she went to her desk to get the materials she needed for the group lesson.  Evidently she took too long.  Zach saw this opportunity to get a chuckle from his classmates.

Zachary stood up while all of his peers were sitting quietly, criss-cross applesauce on the carpet.  With his rear end stuck out behind him, in a high pitched impressionistic voice, and right hand held high he said, “I’m Mrs. Jenkins.  Raise your hand if you like my butt!”   The crowd went wild.  Mrs. Jenkins had lost all control of the classroom.  She walked over to Zach, snatched him by the arm and walked him straight to Ms. Q’s office.

That was Mrs. Jenkins second and final year of teaching elementary school.  Last I heard she was a nanny for a wealthy family with 2 children and selling an energy drink on the side.  Did I mention she tried to sell us said drink stating it might calm Zach down?  Sure.  The remainder of the school year consisted of Zach fighting for Mrs. Jenkins’ attention and Mrs. Jenkins fighting to stay sane.

So, first grade was basically a wash for Zach.  He stayed up on his academics, and got a thicker school record at the same time.  I have checked several times and have been assured by administrative staff at the school, that elementary records are not permanent.  Let’s hope that’s true.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Latke

When you are the product of an interfaith marriage there are a few perks.  In December, you celebrate two separate holidays of lights.  There is Hanukkah, the true celebration of light, and Christmas, because there are lights on your tree.    The Pollocks called this holiday combination, Hannumas.  Each of the eight nights of Hanukkah, we would all put on our yarmulkes and light the menorah.  We would eat potato pancakes and play with the dreidel, while hoarding our chocolate coins.  For Christmas we never actually acknowledged the existence of the Christian Savior, but Santa was very cool.   Our tree had multicolored lights and all handmade ornaments.  The tree would not have made Martha Stewart proud by any means, but we thought it was a work of art, every year. 

Friends used to think because we celebrated two holidays so close together, we got double the gifts.  Nothing could have been further from the truth.   My always clever mom would spread out the gifts.  We may have gotten a cool toy the first night of Hanukkah, but the next 3 would be more practical, like underwear or pencils.  On Christmas morning, the presents would be piled high under the tree.  They were methodically placed so that we, the kids, could count them to make sure no one got more than the other.  It didn’t matter what the quality of the gift was, as long as the quantity matched.   With that said, we were never a family who did without.  We basically got everything our little hearts desired.  Santa was good to us, despite our/my abhorrent behavior throughout the year.

My parents also received gifts from Santa Claus.  Every year a box wrapped in brown paper would arrive via the US Postal Service with a return address of The North Pole.  The actual postmark was Peabody, MA but we didn’t know anyone who lived in a 100 mile radius of Peabody.  The package would come with a thoughtfully worded letter addressing my mom and dad, with no mention of us children.  The gifts were always exotic.  One year my dad received a full gorilla suit.  Another year he received big fuzzy bear claw slippers and my mother received rhino slippers. They always had their theories, but I do not think they ever confirmed the true identity of their Santa.
      

The presents I gave out were always from the heart.  I would take a walk down to the local drug store where my father had a credit account.  While this privilege was abused year round, the holiday season was particularly convenient for me to purchase items for family, friends, and myself, and put it all on my dad’s bill.  I probably put the owners’ kids through college with the amount I spent in that place.  Actually, I guess I should say my father was their benefactor.  I could pick up anything from holiday tchotchkes, to coffee mugs, to toothpaste.  I would wrap it up and gift it like I had earned the cold hard cash it took to purchase.

The gifts from my siblings were always an unexpected treat.  One year, my sister wrapped a piece of week old sliced American cheese and put it under the tree for me.  By the time I opened it, it could have been used as a weapon.  My brother was always the best at giving gifts.  I fondly remember the year he gave my father a tie.  As my dad opened the box, I could see the excitement in my brother’s eyes.  My father ooh’d and ah’d at the tie, and said, “You know, I really like this tie.  I think I have one very similar upstairs in my closet.”  Turns out, it was the tie from his closet.

Now that I have children of my own, who are also products of an interfaith marriage, we celebrate Hannumas in our home.  Others try to call it different mash-ups.  Chrismakuh, Chrismanukah, Hannukamas.  None of them hold the sentimental value that Hannumas does.  I admit, spreading out gifts over a nine day period (8 for Hanukkah/1 for X-mas) is a tricky task.  Even trickier, is showing our children the importance of being grateful for the things we already have, and understanding there are those who don’t even have the opportunity to celebrate one holiday, let alone two.  I am grateful for all I have been blessed with.  My family and friends are happy and healthy.  I have a solid and fulfilling career.  And if an ipad is in the cards for me, so be it.

Just Me and My Cello

I was in third grade when I started playing my first instrument.  With so many to choose from, how was a child supposed to pick just one?  Does an 8 year olds choice in instrument help foretell their personality?  When my brother was of age, he chose the trombone.  It fit him.  I cannot explain how, it just did.  My sister chose the trumpet.  She was the most talented of all of us, which is not saying a whole lot.  When she decided to quit band, my parents were not thrilled.  Both my brother and sister thought band geek was the way to go.  I chose the violin.  What does a stringed instrument say?

Our elementary school had quite the little orchestra.  We had both a winter and a spring concert where we, the talented pool of aficionados, would play our little hearts away.   The parents would sit in the audience beaming with pride.  I now attribute this to ear plugs.  I am not sure how else an auditorium of people could sit through a 2 hour performance of screeching strings in a flat “Silver Bells” or sharp “Here Comes Santa Claus”.  I suppose my parents thought I could develop into a prodigy, so they started enrolling me in private lessons over the summer.   The lessons did not help at all.

I grew, so did my instrument.  I decided the violin was not enough torture for me and my parents, so I graduated to a cello.   In fourth grade, my cello and I were the same size.  I would have to transport it to school 2 times a week.  Tuesdays were orchestra rehearsal, and Thursdays were my individual lesson days.  In between, I was supposed to be practicing at home.  If by practicing, they meant screaming and crying in my room, I practiced a lot.  Like any parents would, mine would sequester me in my room for at least 30 minutes per day to practice.   I hated practicing.  It was boring.  I just wanted to be the adolescent phenom with natural born talent, performing in front of an audience.

Everyone knows the old tale of the grandpa walking to school uphill in the snow, both ways, with no shoes.  Did Grandpa have to walk uphill in the snow, carrying a cello?  I did.  So there, Gramps.  Fortunately, the walk home was downhill.  Unfortunately, in the winter, the sidewalks were usually covered in ice.  I did what any cellist of my caliber would do.  I sat on the cello and used it as a sled.  I would point the neck of the rented instrument downhill.  I then would hop on and let fly.  My parents could not understand how my instrument got be so out of tune, especially when I had just had it tuned for my lesson.  I would blame it on my brother or sister, and they would get punished for messing with it.  “It’s not a toy.”  That’s right, it’s a sled.

By the time I reached the seventh grade, all I had to show for my years of cello were pumped up biceps.  I could have arm wrestled a gorilla had I wanted to, and stood a chance.   It was time to come to terms with my lack of talent in the stringed instrument arena.  The only piece I had mastered to date was the music from the attack scene in "Jaws."  I would chase my brother around the house playing it and make him cry.  When I told me parents I was done with the cello, I am pretty sure I remember them high -fiving.  Maybe not, but they were as glad to see that beast go as I was.  I never picked up another instrument, aside from the occasional bongo or triangle.  They were more my speed.  AND, I can kazoo and tambourine like no one you have ever seen!

The Millennium

New Years Eve in 1999 was a historical event for a bunch of reasons.  Many were concerned about the Y2K computer crash, causing rolling blackouts, financial ruin, and riots in the streets.  Working for a major financial institution, I saw people panicking and withdrawing funds to store in their mattresses.  I, on the other hand, had complete faith in the techies, knowing our fortune of $280 was safe at the turn of the century.  Just to be sure, I woke up bright and early to watch as Australia celebrated, making sure there was no catastrophic blackout or riot or mayhem in general.

I was laying in bed, watching the news as reporters from all over the globe joined the celebration in Australia.  Just as I had suspected, nothing happened.  Dave came into the bedroom already fully dressed and offered to make me breakfast in bed, since I didn’t have to be at work until 11am.  I was not going to turn down the opportunity and gave him my order.  Scrambled eggs, toast and orange juice.   Why today?  He had never offered to make me breakfast in bed before.  He was up to something.

A few moments later, Dave was back with my order.  The man was a short order cook, if I ever saw one.   My breakfast was nicely presented on a Styrofoam plate, with an unexpected side of bacon.   I thanked Chef Boyardave and dug into the eggs.  Dave sat there, on the edge of the bed, and watched me eat.  I asked him where his food was, and he said he wasn’t hungry.  Since when?   I took a bite of the toast, and it had a strange taste to it.  It almost tasted like blue cheese.   I asked Dave if he did anything weird to the toast and he just got offended.  I didn’t want to deter him from ever making me breakfast again, so I pushed through, and ate the blue cheese toast.  Later in the day I inspected the bread bag to discover mold.  I guess that was my dose of penicillin for the year.  Maybe he was not the culinary wizard I made him out to be after all. 

After I finished eating my breakfast while under a microscope, I handed the plate back to Dave and he cleared the fine china and brought it back downstairs.  Since I was still hours away from needing to get ready for work, I rolled over and started to doze off again while listening to the celebratory sounds of the land down under.

Moments later Dave was back.  He laid down next to me on the bed, my back facing him.  So that’s why he made me breakfast.  Figures.  “You know I love you, right?”  He was being so weird.  “Yes, I love you too.”  A couple minutes went by, then he said, “This thing in my pocket is really bothering me.”  Gulp.  After five years, here it was.  The moment I had been waiting for.   With my back still to Dave I said, “If it is bothering you, take it out of your pocket.” 

There was fidgeting, then Dave said, “Do you want to see it?”  I knew there was one of two things I would see when I turned over.   I was praying I wasn’t going to be disappointed.  I slowly turned over and there it was.  A navy blue velvet box.  I just stared at the closed box.  “Well, are you gonna take it?”  I took the box out of his hands, continuing to just gaze at it.  “Well, are you going to open it?”  I grinned and opened the box.  It was the most beautiful ring I ever saw.

“Will you marry me?”  Wait wait wait.  “No, you are doing it all wrong.  You have to get down on one knee and ask!”  Call me traditional, but when I envisioned this moment, with the violins playing in a garden in Paris, my suitor was on bended knee.  I would tell our children someday and I wanted to make sure this event was flawless.  Dave chuckled, hopped off the bed, and got down on one knee on the hardwood floor.  “Will you marry me?”   By this point I was shaking.  “Yes, of course I will marry you!!!”  Dave stood up and as we hugged tighter than ever before, Dave whispered, “Phew.”  

Birthday Banana

When we are younger, birthdays seem to have some sort of magical air about them.   Nothing beats the attention.  My parents would do everything they could to make our day special.  In our house, growing up, birthdays were always celebrated from the very moment the honored person woke up.    Each birthday started with the Birthday Banana.  

 

We would wake up and before we hopped in the shower, or even brushed our teeth, we knew the first thing to do was head to the breakfast table.  Once we made it to the table, there it was, the peeled banana, sitting on a plate with a birthday candle glowing.  My dad did a lot of overnight travel for his job, so he was not always home to celebrate with the family.  My creative mother made it possible for him to be a part of our special day by instituting the birthday banana.  My dad would call from all points NY or Ontario just to partake in the festivities.  Like clockwork, at 7:30am, the phone would ring and we would be gathered around the table when answering the phone.  With dad on the phone, the rest of the family would sing in unison “Happy Birthday.”   Even today, it is a competition in our family to be the first one to call whoever’s birthday it is to sing. 

 

I turned 18 while I was away at college.  There a lot of changes when you go away to school for the first time.   Some changes you don’t even realize until you are experiencing them.  My freshman year was difficult for me.  My mom wasn’t there to advise me.  My Dad wasn’t there to console me.  My brother and sister weren’t there for me to torment.  I was homesick a lot.  Fortunately, I had made a couple friends.  I met Meggan and Julie at orientation before my first semester and we were never seen without each other from then on.  We were The Three Amigas.  They put up with me, and loved me for who I was.  They were my new extended family.

 

November 6^th fell on a Wednesday in 1991.   At 7am, I had already decided to skip my first class at 8am.  It was my birthday, after all.   In Bowman West, 1^st floor, Room 1111, I was nestled all snug in my bed, when at 7:30am there was a knock at my dorm room door.   Neither my roommate nor I had any intention of getting up and stepping on the cold tile floor.  I shouted, “Who is it?!”  There was no answer, but another knock.  I grunted and got out of bed and opened the door.  Meggan and Julie were standing in the doorway. 

 

Meggan and Julie were roommates and lived in another part of the building that was only accessible by the outside.  It had snowed the night before, as it always snowed before my birthday.  Julie and Meggan were still in their pajamas, all bundled up in their winter gear standing in front of me half asleep, hunched over, holding a partially peeled banana with a candle sticking out of the top.   Julie flicked the lighter and lit the candle attached to the banana in Meggan’s hand.  In low raspy tones, together they sang, sort of, “Happy Birthday.”

 

I could not believe it.  I was laughing and crying at the same time.  How did they know?  I never told them about the Birthday Banana, since I had just met them 3 months prior.  I asked.  They told me, when my parents were visiting 2 weekends prior, my mom let them in on our family tradition and asked if they would please give me my birthday banana and sing to me.  She even brought a candle for them to use so they wouldn’t have to worry about finding one.  

 

A few minutes later, my parents and brother and sister called to sing to me.  The first thing my mom asked after the chorus, in a coy voice, was, “Did you have any visitors this morning?”   Even though my mom was almost 4 hours away from me, it was like she was with me.  She was still making it my special day, Birthday Banana and all.

 

Years have passed and the tradition of the birthday banana lives on with my family.  My children receive theirs every year.  It is never an orange, or a doughnut, or a cupcake.  Always a banana.  A birthday banana.