free
membership card.”
He asked for my address. When I asked
whether that had to be correct, he grinned. He was on my team. Bethany pulled
Joey away from me to look at a gumball machine—anything to escape from the hell
of my presence. We settled on 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, and the phone number I
used was one from my old apartment in college.
Bethany didn’t waste a minute to tell on
her ridiculous mother to her sane father that night. “Daddy, Mom gave the guy
at the bookstore a fake name to get a discount card!” she announced at dinner.
Joey, wide-eyed two-year-old, nodded his agreement. Their mother was nuts.
Eddie looked up at me from his close study of the slab of
shoe-leathery meatloaf on his plate. “Really, Anna? In front of the kids?” I
caught the sarcasm, the sweet affection in his voice. Bethany did not. She
raised her eyebrows, and her upturned chin made her neck double in length as
she gave me the slit-eyed look she’d learned from my sister. See? Even Dad thinks you’re wrong .
I ignored her and addressed her father, my ally and best friend.
“It’s no big deal, Eddie. I got a discount
card for free and didn’t even have to put my real name on it.”
“Or her address. Mom lied, Daddy.” Bethany
never lied. She told the raw truth. Slapped you with it. Well, really only
slapped me with it. Lately, I was the butt of all of Bethany’s accusations.
“You can use the card, too, Bethany,” I
tried to appease her. “For a year. You can get ten percent off every book.” I
suffered yet another eye roll from my daughter. Joey tried to mimic her, which
made me laugh. Nothing angered my daughter more than happy people. Note to
self: remember you are the mom. Do not appease.
Eddie was grinning at me through a
mouthful of baked potato, watching me struggle to avoid catching our daughter’s
bad mood. His anecdote was always laughter. He asked, “What’s your name, Anna?
Muckenfuss again?”
“No, sir.” I smiled at him and said, “I am
Martha Washington, my dear Mr. President.”
He chuckled while Bethany stewed, stuck in
the middle of two parents who enjoyed each other. Her parents, still in love,
made no sense to her teenage mind.
1 1
Stupid
Market
“ You know I have trouble in grocery stores,” I reminded Eddie one night after work last
May. With just a few weeks of school left, and the anticipation of summer break
looming like a vanilla pudding-stuffed double chocolate cake, I was exhausted.
“Come with me, Eddie,” I pleaded. “Bethany can watch Joey. Come with me and
help. You can pick the cookies.” I knew how to get the man’s attention.
My weekly trips to the stupid market, as
my sister liked to call it, encompassed three things that I hated to do: shop,
spend money, and waste time. When I was there, I brought a list, and I found my
stuff with record speed and got the heck out. I learned the layout of the store
and zip-zanged through it like the Road Runner. There was nothing I could do
about having to shop for food. My kids loved to eat. But with Eddie helping, I
hoped we could reduce the wasted time.
Eddie, the Cookie Monster, couldn’t
resist. He agreed to come, and we left the house with my long list in his
capable hands.
While I drove, Eddie critiqued my list.
I’m a good driver because I’m so patient. I talk to the other drivers, gently
coaching them, helping all of them to drive better.
“Get the hell off the road, you blue
hair!” I yelled out my window as I passed an older lady in a beige sedan.
Eddie knew better than to comment on my
commenting. That’s why I was driving. When he drove, I couldn’t help but coach
him, too. I drove him crazy from whichever seat I occupied, but he was tactful
enough to bear me in silence and love me anyway.
“There are two kinds of cereal on this
list. Is that a typo?” he asked.
“No. Bethany wants the Cheerios, but Joey
needs the granola.”
“Needs the granola? He’s
membership card.”
He asked for my address. When I asked
whether that had to be correct, he grinned. He was on my team. Bethany pulled
Joey away from me to look at a gumball machine—anything to escape from the hell
of my presence. We settled on 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, and the phone number I
used was one from my old apartment in college.
Bethany didn’t waste a minute to tell on
her ridiculous mother to her sane father that night. “Daddy, Mom gave the guy
at the bookstore a fake name to get a discount card!” she announced at dinner.
Joey, wide-eyed two-year-old, nodded his agreement. Their mother was nuts.
Eddie looked up at me from his close study of the slab of
shoe-leathery meatloaf on his plate. “Really, Anna? In front of the kids?” I
caught the sarcasm, the sweet affection in his voice. Bethany did not. She
raised her eyebrows, and her upturned chin made her neck double in length as
she gave me the slit-eyed look she’d learned from my sister. See? Even Dad thinks you’re wrong .
I ignored her and addressed her father, my ally and best friend.
“It’s no big deal, Eddie. I got a discount
card for free and didn’t even have to put my real name on it.”
“Or her address. Mom lied, Daddy.” Bethany
never lied. She told the raw truth. Slapped you with it. Well, really only
slapped me with it. Lately, I was the butt of all of Bethany’s accusations.
“You can use the card, too, Bethany,” I
tried to appease her. “For a year. You can get ten percent off every book.” I
suffered yet another eye roll from my daughter. Joey tried to mimic her, which
made me laugh. Nothing angered my daughter more than happy people. Note to
self: remember you are the mom. Do not appease.
Eddie was grinning at me through a
mouthful of baked potato, watching me struggle to avoid catching our daughter’s
bad mood. His anecdote was always laughter. He asked, “What’s your name, Anna?
Muckenfuss again?”
“No, sir.” I smiled at him and said, “I am
Martha Washington, my dear Mr. President.”
He chuckled while Bethany stewed, stuck in
the middle of two parents who enjoyed each other. Her parents, still in love,
made no sense to her teenage mind.
1 1
Stupid
Market
“ You know I have trouble in grocery stores,” I reminded Eddie one night after work last
May. With just a few weeks of school left, and the anticipation of summer break
looming like a vanilla pudding-stuffed double chocolate cake, I was exhausted.
“Come with me, Eddie,” I pleaded. “Bethany can watch Joey. Come with me and
help. You can pick the cookies.” I knew how to get the man’s attention.
My weekly trips to the stupid market, as
my sister liked to call it, encompassed three things that I hated to do: shop,
spend money, and waste time. When I was there, I brought a list, and I found my
stuff with record speed and got the heck out. I learned the layout of the store
and zip-zanged through it like the Road Runner. There was nothing I could do
about having to shop for food. My kids loved to eat. But with Eddie helping, I
hoped we could reduce the wasted time.
Eddie, the Cookie Monster, couldn’t
resist. He agreed to come, and we left the house with my long list in his
capable hands.
While I drove, Eddie critiqued my list.
I’m a good driver because I’m so patient. I talk to the other drivers, gently
coaching them, helping all of them to drive better.
“Get the hell off the road, you blue
hair!” I yelled out my window as I passed an older lady in a beige sedan.
Eddie knew better than to comment on my
commenting. That’s why I was driving. When he drove, I couldn’t help but coach
him, too. I drove him crazy from whichever seat I occupied, but he was tactful
enough to bear me in silence and love me anyway.
“There are two kinds of cereal on this
list. Is that a typo?” he asked.
“No. Bethany wants the Cheerios, but Joey
needs the granola.”
“Needs the granola? He’s
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