by Erma Bombeck
He kept busy enough. He set mousetraps. He cut back the roses so the thorns wouldn’t clip you when you came to the front door. He oiled my skates, and they went faster. When I got my bike, he ran alongside me for at least a thousand miles until I got the hang of it.
He signed all my report cards. He put me to bed early. He took a lot of pictures but was never in them. He tightened up Mother’s sagging clothesline every week or so.
I was afraid of everyone else’s father, but not my own. Once I made him tea. It was only sugar water, but he sat on a small chair and said it was delicious. He looked very uncomfortable.
Once I went fishing with him in a rowboat. I threw huge rocks in the water, and he threatened to throw me overboard. I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t, so I looked him in the eye. I finally decided he was bluffing and threw in one more. He was a bad poker player.
Whenever I played house, the mother doll had a lot to do. I never knew what to do with the daddy doll, so I had him say “I’m going off to work now” and threw him under the bed.
When I was nine years old, my father didn’t get up one morning and go to work. He went to the hospital and died the next day.
There were a lot of people in the house who brought all kinds of good food and cakes. We never had so much company before.
I went to my room and felt under the bed for the father doll. When I found him, I dusted him off and put him on my bed.
He never did anything. I didn’t know his leaving would hurt so much.
I still don’t know why.
Speak “Thermostat”—December 19, 1982
My husband has been trying to teach our children to speak “Thermostat” for years.
They say the younger you start to teach them a foreign language, the faster they learn. This has not been the case. “Flush” did not come easy for them. Neither did “Lights.”
“Thermostat” is one of the last of the foreign languages to be taught to children. It comes just after “Hang Up That Phone” and “Shut the Door.” (Note to parents: Please do not proceed to “Thermostat” until they are speaking “Shut the Door” fluently.)
There are several methods of teaching “Thermostat.” Some parents use the Berlitz concept. They put recordings beneath the pillows of children that instruct, “A thermostat controls the furnace. When the door is open, the bad cold air wants to come in and the furnace tries very hard to heat the outdoors. God never meant for a furnace to heat America or He would never have invented snow.”
One of the first phrases a child learns about “Thermostat” is “My room is cold.” “My room is cold” voluntarily triggers his motor activity. He will proceed to the thermostat and with nimble precision move the thermostat dial to 82 degrees (by sheer coincidence, the boiling point of his father).
This is followed by “My room is hot.” However, a strange phenomenon occurs. Instead of turning the thermostat back, your child will open a window. He needs work in the language.
Our children were slow. We spent a year and a half on “How do you spell relief? S-W-E-A-T-E-R!” We spent another two years on “Daddy is not a rich man, and we can no longer afford three children.”
It wasn’t until last week when we took them on a field trip to the meter that they seemed to comprehend what we were talking about. We showed them how the little dials twirled around on the meter and how we were charged for each little twirl. They watched our lips closely as we formed the word Bankruptcy.
One of them said, “Wait a minute. Are you telling us that the colder it gets outside, the harder the furnace has to work to keep it warm inside?”
We nodded happily.
“And every time it clicks on it costs money?” We jumped up and down excitedly. “Why didn’t you say so?”
My husband smiled. “Do you think we can progress to ‘Thank You’?”
“I hate to push ’em before they’re ready,” I said.
New Generation of Fathers—June 21, 1987
In the minds of women, fatherhood used to be considered a part-time job. It was something men did at the end of the day between parking the car for the night and going to bed.
As a matter of fact, it has just been within the past 10 years or so that it has been included in men’s resumes. It is now something that commands more respect.
Children used to go through life waiting for that dreaded threat to materialize: “Just wait till your father gets home.”
When he got there, he was always a bit of an enigma. What did you know about the man...really? He paid all the light bills. You knew that because he told you so. His talents were specialized. They included putting film in the camera, picking up prescriptions from the drugstore, bringing the car around to the door when it was pouring rain, putting Christmas tree lights on the top branches. And he was the only one in the house who could use a curse word and not get his mouth washed out with soap.
When there was a knock on the door late at night, everyone looked to him to answer it. If he had a problem, children never knew about it. If he cried, they never saw it. If he screwed up, they never heard about it. Sometimes it seemed he wasn’t so much your father as he was your mother’s husband.
He never got the egg with the broken yolk. He got the newspaper before anyone tore it apart. When he was taking a nap, everyone went around in stocking feet. On vacations, the car never stopped until he was hungry or had to go to the bathroom.
He was the supreme court of family discipline. His word was final. There were no appeals. This included everything from going away to school to getting the car on Saturday night to washing your hair after midnight in the winter.
And yet...he had a special place in the family. There were some things you could discuss only with him because he had the advantage of distance. With less exposure to you, he saw you differently from the way your mother saw you. You could tell him secrets and he would keep them...tell him your dreams and he wouldn’t look at you and tell you you had to clean your room first. Because he didn’t talk a lot, when he did you listened. When he wasn’t at home, there was no family until he got there.
A new generation of fathers is emerging who want to do more than replace fuses and sign checks for the orthodontist. They don’t want to be spectators or reigning monarchs over a family. They want to be equal partners in it. They’ve even stepped up their hours.
This is healthy. They may lose some of the mystique, but they’ll be more than paid for the extra hours.
Food for Thought
The Instead-of Cookbook—November 4, 1965
WHY DOESN’T SOMEONE WRITE a cookbook for the suburban woman with one car that is used by her husband? Some real clever woman could call it Cookbook for the Suburban Woman With One Car That Is Used by Her Husband and to the first 500 subscribers give away stomach pumps as bonuses.
You’ve got to understand how it is in the suburbs. You can stand in the middle of your living room and sneeze, and promptly 200 families will yell out their patio doors, “Gesundheit!” But when you need something at the store, you have to drag yourself out to a car and drive two miles or so as the crow flies. (Unfortunately, she’s new in the neighborhood and a trifle unfriendly.)
If you don’t abuse your standing with the neighbors, they are sometimes good for short-term loans of staples. However, I am in hock to my neighbor on the left for a cup of rice, a snow shovel, a hamburger patty, a fuse and a sheet of juvenile birthday wrapping paper, and to the neighbor on the right for a can of tomato paste, a thermometer (oral), a quart of skim milk and a bobbin of green thread. I may be a sleazy, undependable, no-good deadbeat of a neighbor, but I’ve got my pride.
If I were writing a cookbook, I would naturally include my Fake-It Casserole. You substitute a cup of noodles for a cup of asparagus. Then for the sour cream, you either add a tablespoon of vinegar to the milk you have on hand to curdle it or forget about it entirely and add a can of cream of mushroom soup.
If you don’t have cream of mushroom soup, put in a cup of grated cheese. However, if you ha
ve the mushroom soup, add bread crumbs and some minced onion. If you have the cheese but not the soup, sprinkle a little Parmesan on top and slip it into the oven.
Bake it at 350 degrees for 20 minutes if you’ve the noodles and the sour cream, or at 325 degrees for 30 minutes if you’ve the asparagus and the grated cheese. If this recipe makes you tense, then for goodness’ sake forget it and have pork chops and applesauce.
If it is true that necessity is the mother of invention, it is for certain that irrationality is the grandmother of desperation. (Don’t read that again. It makes even less sense the second time around.) One afternoon last week after a dismal attempt at a banana nut loaf (using no bananas and no nuts), I decided to whip up chocolate chip cookies. The chocolate chip bits were only a two-mile bicycle ride away. I huffed and pedaled until my varicose veins begged for mercy. It took me two hours and ten minutes, round trip.
Back in the kitchen, I was ready to create when I discovered I was out of flour and brown sugar. I’ll share with you my recipe for Miracle Worker Chip Cookies. Substitute a cup of oatmeal for the flour and add a teaspoonful of vanilla. If you don’t have the vanilla, use lemon extract with a dash....
Weight Watchers Dilemma—April 27, 1972
I have dieted continuously for the last two decades and lost a total of 758 pounds. By all calculations, I should be hanging from a charm bracelet.
I have done a lot of kidding around with Weight Watchers, but it is the only organization in which I ever lost a great deal of weight. But I fought them.
Every Tuesday morning, a group of us had to weigh in before the lecture. Our ritual was enough to boggle the imagination. We got together a checklist of precautions before we actually stepped on the scale.
Bathroom? Check. Water pill? Check. Have you removed underwear, wedding rings, nail polish? Check. Set aside shoes, corn pads and earrings? Check. Are you wearing a summer dress beneath your winter coat? Check.
The first week, I stepped on the scale and my instructor said, “You have gained.” (Next week, I cut my hair.)
The next week, she said, “You have lost eight ounces, but that is not enough.” (I had the fillings in my teeth removed.)
The third week, I had dropped a pound, but my instructor was still not pleased. (I had my tonsils taken out.)
Finally, she really chewed me out. She accused me of not sticking to the diet and not taking it seriously. That hurt.
“I didn’t want to tell you,” I said, “but I think I am pregnant.”
“How far?” she said coldly, clicking her ballpoint pen to make a notation on my card.
“Possibly three days,” I said.
She glowered. “Any other excuses?”
“Would you believe I have a cold and my head is swollen?”
“No.”
“How about I was celebrating the Buzzards’ Return to Hinkley, Ohio, and had butter on my popcorn?”
She tapped her pen impatiently on the card and stared at me silently.
“Lint in the navel?” I offered feebly.
“How about first one at the trough?” she asked dryly.
I learned quickly never to argue with a woman who had the scales on her side.
I saw my old instructor the other day. She eyed me carefully and said, “When are you returning to class?”
“As soon as I have my appendix removed,” I said, returning her gaze.
I’m not sure, but I think I heard her moan.
Burning Calories—August 18, 1974
My doctor flipped the weight of the scale over another notch, looked at me with annoyance and said, “Man does not live by bread alone.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I said. “Any fool knows you have to make it into a sandwich, top it with homemade preserves or cover it with cheese sauce and make a casserole out of it.”
“You are overweight again,” he said.
“Like how much?”
“Like if you were scheduled to fight Muhammad Ali this fall, you would have to drop fifteen pounds to make the heavyweight division. How much exercise do you get?”
“I leaned over a week ago Thursday for what I thought was a gingersnap cookie in the carpet, but it turned out to be a cork coaster and I haven’t taken a chance since.”
“Do you go to the refrigerator a lot?”
“Yes, and sometimes I even run.”
“I have here a list of activities that tell you how many calories you can burn up per hour. I want you to go over the list and try to do at least one or two activities a day.”
The list was depressing. An hour of housework burnt up 80 to 180 calories, ironing 50 to 60 and writing 10 to 20. I would have to arm-wrestle King Kong to make a difference.
Then a brilliant idea hit me. If I could do some vigorous exercises, I could eat all the fat food I wanted and burn it off before it took root.
That night I had a piece of apple pie. Then I grabbed one of the kid’s bicycles and pedaled for two hours. It was work, but it was worth it. I had paid for my folly.
The next night I had 40 potato chips. To make up for it, I did a little ironing that I had put back. (Actually I only ironed for eight hours and put the rest of it back again.)
The next afternoon I outdid myself. I found an Easter egg I had hidden from the kids in the freezer totaling 583 calories. I had to paint the house to work it off. The same night I had lobster in butter, which totaled 2,390 calories. Checking my list I discovered I would have to row across Lake Erie and back to balance the calories.
Then, a terrible pattern began to form. I was borrowing on my energy and putting IOUs in the refrigerator. I owed two hours of carpentry for a bowl of cereal in cream, three miles of jogging for a French doughnut, and eight days of shoveling snow for a piece of birthday cake.
As I sit here writing this column, I am in hock through 1975. As I told my doctor, the only way I can possibly catch up is to be an oarsman on a slave ship. He is making the necessary arrangements.
Dinner Is Ready—May 24, 1977
In the mid-twenties, physiologist Ivan P. Pavlov made a rather interesting discovery. Every time he brought food to a dog, he would ring a bell and the dog’s mouth began to water. Later, just by ringing the bell, he could bring about a reflex action of saliva.
In the late forties, Erma Bombeck, a simple housewife in Ohio, made another interesting scientific discovery. By announcing to her family, “Dinner is ready,” it was noted that the entire family swung into action like a precision drill team. For no apparent reason, her husband would exit to clean out the medicine chest, one child would pick up the telephone and begin dialing, another would go to the bathroom and lock the door, and once one of them took a bus to Detroit.
After a while, she wouldn’t even have to say anything. When she appeared at the door, they all just took off and scattered.
Just when it seemed her frustration had reached a breaking point, she observed yet another phenomenon. Hours later as the family sat around the table and raised their forks for the first bite, the phone would ring. It became as predictable as rain the day you washed the car, and it was driving her crazy.
She tried everything. She scheduled meals at odd hours. She tiptoed to the table. She once went to the living room where they were all seated around the TV set and instead of announcing dinner said, “I’m not here to announce what you think I am.” But the group could not be fooled.
Every night they sat down to warm lettuce and cold French fries, while members of the family filed in and out like they were visiting a 7-Eleven market. And every night as they prepared to eat the first bite, the phone rang.
Her husband said she was imagining things, until one weekend Erma was flat on the sofa with a virus and he was in charge of dinner. Flushed with heat from the stove, and from the pressure, he ran into the living room and announced, “Dinner is ready.”
One son stood up and went to the mailbox, another went to the car to look for his tennis racket, the dog went to the door and scratched to get ou
t, and Erma started to exit.
“Where are you going?” he asked hysterically.
“I’m going to be sick.”
“Couldn’t you wait until after dinner?” he asked miserably. “I’ve worked like a dog to get the fish sticks, the chili and the potato chips to come out even.”
Twenty minutes later as we all gathered around the table, we waited to hear the inevitable ring of the phone. There was silence for five minutes...then 10...then 20 minutes.
A smile crept across my husband’s face. “I guess your theory has just sprung a leak,” he said. “We’re eating and the phone is not ringing.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was only half right.
Dieting Is a Losing Battle—March 21, 1978
It’s no use for me to diet. I know that now.
All those years when my knees rubbing together whispered “no, no” but there was a “yes, yes” in my mouth, I fought the battle.
All those years when I lost 10 pounds every Monday (five in my neck and five in my bust), I hung in there.
All those years when I embraced cottage cheese as a formal religion, I gave it my all.
But after yesterday, I have to admit, I’m beaten. I’m fighting the battle alone.
It started in the morning when I faced the refrigerator with my hand over my heart and once again pledged allegiance to hunger. I poured myself half a glass of tomato juice mixed with half a glass of buttermilk and tossed it down. I felt virtuous.
At lunch, I threw down a cup of bouillon and pretended celery was wicked.
I had dinner ready to serve by 3:30 in the afternoon. It was well-balanced and would be totally satisfying: broiled fish, an oil-free salad, asparagus and an apple.
At 4 P.M. I looked at the dinner again. It looked pale, so I surrounded it with a fruit salad with coconut in it.
At 4:30, with nothing to do, I rolled out a pan of biscuits to pop into the oven.