Forever, Erma

by Erma Bombeck

  “Let me start off by saying,” said my husband, “that you can’t be illogical or sentimental about this stuff.”

  “Well, that’s pretty pompous, coming from a man who still has his Jack Armstrong signet ring, a book of shoe stamps from World War II, and his first bow-wow!”

  “Those are collector’s items,” he explained. “That’s different. I’m talking about junk. Right now, we are going to establish a rule of thumb for saving things.”

  We sat down on a carton marked RAIN-SOAKED HALLOWEEN MASKS. “Now,” he continued, “if we can’t wear it, frame it, sell it or hang it on the Christmas tree, out it goes! Understand?”

  At the end of two hours we hauled four pitiful items to the curb: a broken Hula Hoop, an airline calendar showing Wiley Post spinning a propeller, an empty varnish can and one tire chain.

  “This is ridiculous,” he growled, crawling back into the attic. “Let’s take this stuff one by one. What’s this?”

  “That’s our summer cabin inventory.”

  “What summer cabin?”

  “The one we’re going to buy someday. So far we have a studio couch, a lamp with a bowling pin base, six Shirley Temple cereal bowls, two Venetian blinds and a chair with a rope seat.”

  “And this?” he sighed.

  “That’s my motherhood insurance. They’re all my old maternity clothes, bottle sterilizer, potty chair, layettes, baby bed and car seat. You lay a hand on this stuff, and we’ll both live to regret it!”

  “And all this trash?”

  “That belongs to you. Consecutive license plates from 1937, old fertilizer bags, a rusted hand sickle, a picture of the Cincinnati Reds autographed by Bucky Walters, the medical dictionary wrapped in plain brown wrapper, cartons of English quizzes from the class of 1953, 18 empty antifreeze cans, a box marked OLD FURNACE FILTERS and a bait box that’s trying to tell us something. Do you want me to start tossing?”

  “Tossing! Don’t talk nonsense! Go out to the curb and get back that tire chain. I just found its mate under this insulation! You never know. Edsels may come back!”

  Interpreting the Checkbook—April 24, 1967

  It was right after I mailed our house payment check to our own address...no, I’ll take that back; it was right after I let my husband’s insurance policy lapse that he said quietly, “Maybe paying the bills is getting to be a little too much for you. Why don’t you let me take over writing the checks?”

  I can remember licking his hand and promising him I would never rest until they memorialized him on a five-cent postage stamp. “I’ll show you how the checkbook works,” I said excitedly.

  “I know how the checkbook works,” he answered patiently.

  It was a full two days before he cornered me and said, “What does NS beside a check stand for?”

  “It stands for No Stamp,” I answered. “That means I wrote the check and put it in an envelope and put it on the bookcase, but I didn’t have a stamp to mail it, so I bent an arrow down to the deposit line and added the check to the balance.”

  “Maybe you’d better explain how the checkbook works,” he said wearily.

  “Well, when the arrow goes up, that’s something different. That’s when I start writing checks earlier in the week than when I actually have money in the bank. Then, when I deposit your check, I make an arrow up to that point so I will have a balance to subtract from. You got it with the arrows now?”

  “I think so,” he said.

  “Good. When there’s an SG, that means Somebody Goofed on the balance. I don’t sweat it anymore. Remember I used to bite my cuticles until they bled? Well, I draw a big, black, wavy line. That means we begin with brand-new figures—the bank’s. Now, JM means Just Mailed, so you naturally subtract the entry. It’s not too tricky to understand, once you get the symbols down.”

  “On this check to a sorority, you’ve got TB beside the entry.”

  “Yes. That stands for Tough Beans. It’s an expression I picked up from the kids. You see, when a check is older than six months, the bank has to check with you personally to see whether or not you want it to go through. When I see that check has never been canceled or returned, I simply put TB beside it and spend the money all over again.”

  “I see what you mean,” he said slowly. “One more question; I almost hate to ask, but what’s APR?”

  “Good grief,” I said, aghast, “that’s a simple abbreviation for April. I thought everyone knew that. If you think you can’t handle the checkbook you’d better say so. You can’t fool around with money, you know.”

  Men Have a Six-Word Limit—July 23, 1969

  I have publicly stated that men speak approximately six words a day in their own homes. A few readers have challenged me and want to know what the six words are.

  I should have qualified my statement. The six words are not necessarily spoken in sequence, nor are they necessarily spoken to wives.

  A friend of mine, for example, has a husband who saves his six words until the Carson show has signed off and she is fast asleep. Then he snaps on all the lights in the bedroom, punches his pillow, shakes her out of a sound slumber and says, “Did you turn off the hose?” (6)

  Some men will blow their quota at one time.

  They’ll garage the car, make tracks to the kitchen, take the lid off the fry pan and announce loudly, “I had it for lunch.” (5) Then, realizing he has used only five words, he will add, “Yuck!”

  Others will spend a half dozen words in obscenities directed toward Bobby’s bicycle in the driveway.

  My week gets off to a slow start but builds to a feverish climax.

  Monday:

  Me: “Say something.”

  Him: “What ya want me to say?” (6)

  Tuesday:

  Me: “What kind of day did you have?”

  Him: “Don’t aggravate me. You wouldn’t believe.” (6)

  Wednesday:

  Me: “Try me.”

  Him: “Where’s the rest of the paper?” (6)

  Thursday:

  Me: “We had a crisis here today.”

  Him: “The dog isn’t lost, is he?” (6)

  Friday:

  Me: “Guess what? Know who called today? And is coming to dinner? And is bringing her new husband with her? And can’t wait to talk your arm off? Are you ready?”

  Him: “No. No. No. No. No. No.” (6)

  Saturday:

  Me: “I’ll be out for a while. I’ve got some errands to do at the shopping center.”

  Him: “Admit it. My chattering gets on your nerves.” (8)

  Sunday:

  Me: “Do you know you spoke eight words to me yesterday? I wouldn’t be surprised if you were starting a new trend.”

  Him: “Don’t count on it.” (4)

  Part of man’s silence is woman’s doing. We created the strong, silent, masculine image. The silence represented deep thought, a repression of emotions. A quiet man was an island of mystery, a challenge to probe and discover as years went on. I always thought a quiet man was subtle and romantic.

  But that was before I started arguing with the tropical fish over which channel we were going to watch.

  Car Hits a Tree—January 24, 1971

  The other night a tree I had never seen before swerved in front of me at the end of our driveway and clipped my right fender.

  “That is the most ridiculous story I have ever heard,” said my husband.

  I knew he would say that. He said that when one of the kids pushed a button on the automatic umbrella in the backseat, poked me in the ear and caused me to run through a barrier in the parking garage.

  He said that the time a crazy, wild, out-of-control grocery cart attacked the car and caused me to sideswipe a row of balled evergreens along the curb.

  He’s one of those “logical drivers” who doesn’t believe garbage cans are out to get you (even the sober ones).

  “For your information,” I said, “I am not the only driver who has had weird experiences beh
ind the wheel of a car. I was reading a story the other day about some of the reasons motorists gave their insurance companies for having an accident. One man said, I’m a preacher so I couldn’t have been “at fault.” Another one said, ‘I was driving down the road when I received a message from the Lord. Being a religious man, I bowed my head; that’s when I hit the car in front of me.’ ”

  “Oh, good grief,” said my husband, shaking his head.

  “It’s possible,” I said. “One poor victim reported, ‘I was fascinated by seeing this here wheel roll down the road. After the accident, I found it was off my car. I never seen a wheel go so—’ ”

  “That doesn’t make any sense at all,” he insisted.

  “Sometimes it really isn’t our fault,” I said. “Take pollution. It caused at least one accident. The man said he was speeding up to pass the awful odor. Sometimes there’s nothing else you can do. Like the poor guy who said, I started up and the car ahead didn’t, so I drove into him.’ I ask you, what would you have done?”

  “Let’s get back to your instant landscaping story.”

  “You mean you do not believe a tree would appear out of nowhere and clip my fender?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Would you believe the dog wouldn’t stop breathing until he steamed up my windows so bad I couldn’t see the tree growing?”

  He shook his head.

  “Okay,” I said, “and this is your last chance. The devil made me do it.”

  Daytime Husband, Nocturnal Wife—March 22, 1971

  Someone asked my husband at a party the other night to what he attributed his long marriage and he said, “It’s the happy mating of a man and a hamster. I work all day while she sleeps, and I sleep at night while she runs around her exercise wheel.”

  I thought that was a pretty rotten thing to say, considering the fact that I must assume all the worry and the anxiety of raising a family and running a home when there aren’t enough daylight hours.

  Once I am in bed I must worry if the front door is locked; if the coffeepot is unplugged, the guard rails up on the bunk beds, the car lights out, the bread out of the freezer to defrost for breakfast, the check is in the milkbox for the milkman, and if the toilet will stop running. Frankly, I don’t know how men can be so insensitive to what is going on.

  Last week I shook my husband and whispered, “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?”

  “That barking.”

  “It’s just a wild guess, but it could be the dog.”

  “I know it is the dog, but what is he barking at?”

  “Maybe the furnace blower went on again.”

  “You don’t care about anything, do you?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like in all the years we’ve been married, never once have you gone around to the children’s beds and checked to see if they were breathing all right.”

  “Oh, good grief. Why do you insist on lying there all night with your eyes open?”

  “Because that is when I do my best thinking. Last night I think I figured out where Howard Hughes is. Tonight I am trying to figure out how to stay on the Stillman diet without a nose plug. Tomorrow, who knows? I may find a cure for ground hamburger.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To see why the dog is barking.”

  At dawn I crawled into bed. My husband stirred. “What was the dog barking about?”

  “Someone had put gym shoes on the register to dry. I knew he was barking at something.”

  “You’ve been down there all that time blowing on a pair of gym shoes?” he asked.

  “No, I decided to do the ironing. Did you really mean that crack about our marriage?”

  “No.” He yawned. “You’ve given me fourteen wonderful years.”

  “We’ve been married twenty-one years,” I corrected.

  “So,” he sighed. “Fourteen out of twenty-one isn’t bad.”

  Keeping Track of Valuable Papers—June 1972

  We had an insurance claim to make the other day, and my husband asked, “Where is the policy?”

  “It’s obviously in my folder marked IMPORTANT PAPERS.”

  “Which is—?”

  “Which is lost,” I said. “I haven’t seen it since we moved.”

  “You mean it has been lost since last June?”

  “No, it’s been lost since we moved from the flat to the farm in 1968.”

  “That’s incredible,” he said. “That means we can’t put our finger on our insurance policies, our deeds, our car registrations, our will—or our marriage license, for that matter.”

  “I’ll look for it this afternoon,” I said.

  By that evening, I was all smiles. “I have some good news and some bad news,” I said.

  “Let’s have the good news first,” he said.

  “Well, I found our car registrations being used as bookmarks in The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit, our life insurance policies turned up in your shirt drawer, and the deed to the house was in the attic in a box marked MATERNITY CLOTHES. The will turned up in the suit jacket you wore the day we made it. And I found our folder marked IMPORTANT PAPERS in the sewing machine drawer.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said, excitedly opening the box. He picked up a decayed blossom and said, “What is this?”

  “It’s a dried gardenia you got me for the military ball. And here are 400 Top Value stamps, a batch of spelling papers from the seventh grade you once taught, a dental appointment card for our son from 1962, your dog tags from the army, a Korean flag, a renewal card from Reader’s Digest, someone’s baby tooth and an expired library card.”

  “These are important papers?” he asked, his eyes widening.

  “I’m not finished. There are three tokens for Fantasy City, a typing certificate for 40 words a minute in my name, the dog’s inoculation record, the laundry instructions for something Celanese, two tags that read, DO NOT REMOVE THESE TAGS, and, voila! our house insurance policy. Aren’t you pleased?”

  He sat silently for a moment, looking at the contents of the IMPORTANT PAPERS file. “What’s the bad news?” he asked tiredly. “I found our marriage license,” I said quietly.

  Husband Born Late—October 8, 1972

  There are no records to prove it, but I have every reason to believe my husband was an 11-month baby. And he’s been running two months late ever since.

  Through marriage (and bad association), I have become a member of that great body of tardy Americans who grope their way down theater aisles in the dark, arrive at parties in time to drink their cocktails with dessert and celebrate Christmas on December 26.

  Frankly, I don’t know how a nice punctual girl like me got stuck with a man who doesn’t need a watch...but a calendar and a keeper.

  Would it shock you to know I have never seen a bride walk down the aisle? I have never seen a choir or a graduate in a processional. I have never seen the victim of a mystery before he was murdered. I have never seen a parking lot jammed with people. I have never seen the first race of a daily double or a football team in clean uniforms.

  The other night I had it out with my husband. “Look, I am in the prime time of my life and I have never heard the first thirty seconds of the Minute Waltz. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

  “What are you trying to say?” he asked.

  “I am saying that once before I die I would like to see a church with empty seats.”

  “We’ve been through all this before.” He sighed. “Sitting around before an event begins is a complete waste of time when you could be spending it sleeping...reading...working....”

  “Don’t forget driving around the block looking for a parking place. I don’t understand you at all,” I continued. “Don’t you get curious as to what they put into first acts? Aren’t you just a bit envious of people who don’t have to jump onto moving trains? Aren’t you tired of sitting down to a 44-minute egg for breakfast each morning?”

  “I set my alarm c
lock every night. What do you want from me?”

  “I have seen you set your alarm clock. When you want to get up at six-thirty you set it for five-thirty. Then you smack it and say ‘Don’t tell me what to do, buddy.’ Then you reset it for six. At six when it goes off you hit it again and shout, ‘Ha,-ha. I was only kidding. I got another half hour.’ You reset it for six-thirty, at which time you throw your body on it and say ‘I don’t need you. I don’t need anybody.’ Then you go back to sleep.”

  “I just happen to believe there is no virtue in being early. What time is it?”

  “It’s eight o’clock. You’re supposed to be at work at eight.”

  “Yes. Lucky I’ve got twenty minutes to spare.”

  I have a feeling I will go through life and never again hear “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

  Husband Dreads Hammering Nails in the Wall—November 23, 1972

  You know what the real basic difference is between a man and a woman?

  A woman can walk through the Louvre in Paris and see 5,000 paintings on the wall. A man can walk through the Louvre in Paris and see 5,000 nails in the wall.

  I don’t know what there is about a nail in the wall that makes strong, virile men cry.

  The first time I was aware of this phenomenon was a week after my husband and I were married. I passed him in the kitchen one day while carrying a small nail and a small hammer.

  “Where are you going with that hammer and nail?” he asked, beginning to pale.

  “I am going to hang up a towel rack,” I said.

  He could not have looked more shocked if I had said I was going to drive a wooden peg in the heart of a vampire.

  “Do you have to drive that spike in the wall to do it?”

  “No,” I said, resting on the sink. “I could prop the towel rack up in a corner on the floor. I could hang it around my waist from a rope, or I could do away with it altogether and keep a furry dog around the sink to dry my hands on.”