Forever, Erma

by Erma Bombeck

  We had a total of three beggars. They were on the honor system. We held the basket out and let them choose. The little five-year-old was adorable. She delicately reached in and extracted a single candy bar. The kid behind her, who looked about eight, took three without batting an eye. And the oldest one, who probably had a mustache under his mask and drove the car, reached in with both pig hands and dragged out five or ten pieces. It was like one of those giant claws in a machine where you’re trying to snare the diamond ring.

  I had every intention of putting the leftover candy in the freezer, but my husband said, “Why? You’ll just break a tooth or buy a chain saw.” He thinks he’s funny.

  I buy candy only once a year. I know how I am. If it is around, I will not rest until every piece is gone.

  I did not eat the Halloween candy indiscriminately. I used it as rewards.

  I rewarded myself for remembering to take the chicken innards out of the freezer and deposit them in the trash can the night before garbage day. I got a candy for every right answer I got on Jeopardy! I got a treat for ironing the back of my husband’s shirt and another for eating a two-day leftover.

  One night just before dinner, my son dropped by in time to see me pop a Baby Ruth in my mouth.

  “I thought you always told us candy would ruin our dinner.”

  “This is different. It’s a reward.”

  “For what?” he asked.

  “For having the strength to stop at one candy bar while I’m cooking.”

  “Come to think of it,” he said, “all that Halloween candy we got that you stored in the freezer, we never saw again.”

  “I told you the ants got it.”

  “How could ants live in the freezer?” “They dressed warm.”

  “I think you polished it off a piece at a time.” When he left, I was stressed from all the questions. A Hershey bar seemed to soothe me somehow.

  Tooth Traps—June 4, 1995

  This is one of those Jerry Seinfeld nothing topics that no one ever talks about.

  Did you ever have a tooth that traps anything you put in your mouth? It can be in the smile zone or a molar in the back, but no matter what you chew, it ends up getting caught. I do not know anyone personally who can ignore this. Whatever it is must go.

  If I am home alone and get a piece of grapefruit caught in my tooth, wouldn’t you think I would walk to the bathroom and get a piece of dental floss? I am not challenged by that. Instead, I grab a card from my Rolodex and try sliding it between my teeth. It doesn’t work.

  Now I have a chunk of my gynecologist’s phone number stuck in my tooth. I open my desk drawer and find a spool of pink thread. I snip off a long piece and wedge that in the tooth. It sticks there. Now I have a piece of pink thread dangling out of my mouth. I have one long fingernail that I grow for such a moment. It doesn’t begin to budge all the litter trapped in the space.

  The needlepoint needle doesn’t loosen it. Neither does the letter opener. As a last resort I go for the floss. The space can take no more. Now the floss dangles next to the pink thread. I am going through life looking like a party favor.

  I am angry at myself for not bringing out my big weapon to begin with—my tongue. Throughout the years, I have developed one of the strongest tongues in the world. It comes from sitting through dinners/concerts/movies/meetings and anywhere people frown on having you put your entire hand in your mouth to remove a foreign object from between your teeth. After years of probing and pushing, my tongue is not unlike that of the Budweiser frog who attaches his to a beer truck and yee-ha’s his way down the highway.

  I don’t like to resort to the tongue. Everyone knows what you’re doing. To begin with, you are so focused that your eyes glaze over, your mouth is set in a firm line and you have no idea what is going on around you. All you want to do is search and seize that piece of food from your tooth.

  In many ways I’m lucky. The tooth that catches everything in my mouth is a molar. I’ve seen other people who get food trapped in their front teeth. A piece of spinach will not only stick there, it will cover the tooth like an ugly slipcover.

  And if you think you can drop a napkin and force a piece of chicken out from between your teeth under the table, forget it.

  I can say there is no sensation as euphoric as when the foreign object breaks loose. Yee-ha!

  The Empty Nest

  Daughter Returns to College—January 28, 1972

  OUR DAUGHTER HAS JUST returned to her college campus following three weeks of R and R at the Bombeck Hilton. She may be rested and rehabilitated, but we are beyond recovery.

  As my husband and I walked through the gutted, bare rooms of our home, our footsteps echoed hollowly on the bare floors. Finally, my husband spoke. “It’s incredible, isn’t it? It took us twenty-two long married years to amass eight rooms of furniture, forty-three appliances, linens for five beds and an acceptable wardrobe and now...it’s all gone.”

  I nodded. “And to think she condensed it all in two large suitcases and a zippered gym bag.”

  “I just don’t believe it,” he said, closing the doors on the bare linen closet. “The sheets, the towels, our electric blanket. All gone. Why don’t you make us a cup of coffee?”

  “Can you drink it out of an ashtray?”

  “Forget it,” he said. “I’m going to sit down and—”

  “I wouldn’t,” I cautioned. “She took that small occasional chair you used to sit in.”

  “And the TV?” he gasped.

  “The first to be packed, along with the transistor radio, the hair dryer, the makeup mirror, the iron, the electric skillet, your shaver and your parka jacket.”

  “And I suppose the phonograph is—”

  I nodded, “College bound. Along with the typewriter, electric fan, space heater, bulletin board, label maker, bowling ball, popcorn popper and full set of encyclopedias.”

  “How will she lug all that stuff back to school?”

  “I think she dismembered the bicycle and put it under her seat.”

  “What are we going to do?” he asked, looking at the barren rooms.

  “If we looked better we might get on the The Newlywed Game and try to win a washer and dryer.”

  “I think we’ve got enough Green Stamps for—”

  “Forget the Green Stamps,” I said softly. “She took them.”

  “We could take a trip and—”

  “If we still had luggage,” I corrected.

  “This is ridiculous,” he snarled. “Why can’t she go to college right here at home?”

  “She wants to get away from materialism,” I said.

  Picking Up the Tennis Ball—July 24, 1975

  There are few things in this world more satisfying than having your son teach you how to play tennis, unless it is having a semi-truck run over your foot.

  It is almost as if he is paying you back for letting him fall off the dryer when he was a baby and you were bathing him...for putting him to bed on his fifth birthday when he threw ice cream into the fan...for bailing out of the car when he was 16 and you were teaching him how to drive. All the hostilities come out the moment you walk onto the court together.

  “We’re going to continue with our instruction on how to pick up the ball,” he said.

  “I know how to pick up the ball,” I said.

  “I’ve told you before, we do not pick up the ball like a gorilla going for a banana. There is the professional way and there are several approaches. You can use the western forehand grip, lean over gently and tap the ball with your racket until it bounces.”

  Several minutes later as I was on my knees pounding the racket into the optic yellow ball, he leaned over and said, “It is not a snake you are beating to death. It is a tennis ball. Let’s try the ball-against-the-foot method.”

  I stood up exhausted. “How does that work again?”

  “You grip your racket against the ball and firmly force it to the inside of your left foot. Bending your knee, you lift the ball to a
bout six inches off the ground and drop it. When it bounces, you continue bouncing it with your entire racket until you can pluck it off the ground into your hand.”

  Gripping the racket, I forced the ball to the inside of my foot, where it rolled over the foot and toward the net. I cornered it and started inching the ball up my leg but lost my balance and fell into the net.

  Approaching the ball once more, I accidentally kicked it with my foot and chased it in a crouched position to the corner of the court, slamming my body into the fence.

  For the next 15 minutes, the elusive little ball moved all over the court like it had a motor in it.

  Finally, I leaned over, grabbed it with my hand, placed it on my leg and supported it with the racket.

  “Okay!” I shouted. “I picked up the ball.”

  “That’ll be all for today,” he said. “We’ll spend a few more weeks on this before moving along to hitting the ball.”

  I put my arm over his shoulder. “Now, let me tell you how to pick up towels off the bathroom floor. You simply bend your body in the middle, grasp the towel firmly....”

  Empty Nest Overrated—October 1, 1978

  All the child psychology books I’ve ever read take you down the yellow brick road past puberty, serious petting, into mature relationships and leave you.

  But parenting isn’t like that. There are 30 million parents out there with kids between the ages of 18 and 55 who dart in and out of their lives like a revolving door.

  The empty nest syndrome is overrated. I have heard of some parents who moved during the night to another city (and left no forwarding address). Others have installed pay showers. Still another parent I know waited until her son got up one night to use the bathroom, then painted his room pink and rented it to a pocket computer salesman.

  No parent likes to change locks, but the situation is definitely getting out of hand. Children simply aren’t leaving the home after school anymore as they did in the sixties. When they do, they multiply and come back tenfold.

  So how do you displace an aging teenager? It isn’t easy. When our son’s bedroom began to take on the appeal of a roadside zoo (complete with sawdust on the floor), we took action.

  First, we set the table for two. This made him aware that he was not expected for dinner.

  Second, we intercepted his mail, wrote No such person at this address and had it returned to the post office for forwarding.

  We posted signs in the hallway reading, OCCUPANCY BY MORE THAN TWO IN THIS HOUSE IS A FIRE HAZARD.

  We were considering telling him he would have to share his room with the family pet (and buying a wolf) when we came up with a daring but cruel idea. We stopped stocking the refrigerator.

  If I live to be 100, I’ll never forget the look of fear in that child’s eyes, standing in front of the refrigerator door (the hairs in his nose becoming frosted) and saying, “Is that all there is?”

  We never saw him again.

  You hear a lot of dialogue on the death of the American family. Families aren’t dying, they’re merging into big conglomerates. Daughters and sons who are between roommates (legal and lethal) drift in and approach the desk like they’re in a hotel, asking, “Is my old room still available?” Cribs and strollers appear with babies. Cars and special menus are requested.

  I rechecked my child psychology book the other day for the answer and wondered, “Is there life after the index?”

  Parents Covet Kids’ Closets—August 9, 1979

  I have always been led to believe that if you lose a daughter or son to an apartment/dormitory/barracks, you gain a closet.

  An extra closet is a big thing with parents. Sometimes it makes the difference between sleeping with a set of golf clubs or eating dinner every night with a box of sewing scraps on your lap.

  When our children were younger, sometimes my husband and I would sneak into their bedrooms as they slept. We would gaze at their closets as I squeezed his hand and smiled. “Just think, dear, one day all of that will be yours.”

  We fantasized about the time each of us would have a rod of our own for clothes...a shelf without Christmas decorations...floor space without boxes marked RAIN-SOAKED HALLOWEEN MASKS or EXPIRED WARRANTIES.

  When the first child peeled off, we waved goodbye and ran to her closet. We couldn’t get the door open. When we did, we couldn’t get it closed. There were dolls, animal-shaped pillows, old records “that would one day be classics,” traffic signs, posters and 15 or 20 boxes marked DO NOT TOUCH.

  When the second child relocated, we spoke openly of the closet and what we would do when it was vacated. We soon lost hope when he wheeled a bicycle into our closet and said, “I don’t have room to store it in my closet, and if I leave it out in the garage it’ll get ripped off.”

  Today, I don’t think anyone can touch us on closet occupancy. We’ve been running at capacity for nearly 30 years. We are storing composition books (lined and unlined), 2,080 friendship pictures, fuzzy dogs, rubber worms, graduation tassels, rugs from Disneyland, pennants, fins, sand-filled cameras, basketballs, kites, dogeared letters, college catalogs, tennis trophies and license plates.

  All I know is I’m sick of the battle. I’m sick of wearing clothes that look like they’ve been laminated, sick of having children come back to visit their drums, sick of falling over tennis rackets without string and jackets that don’t fit anyone. Let the word go out: When I go...if I don’t have a closet of my own...I’m not going.

  “Not to Worry”—July 15, 1984

  It was one of those days that a mother dreams about.

  It was Saturday and I could sleep until I got a headache. The kids were grown and on their own. Nothing in the house leaked oil, dripped water, smoked when you plugged it in, made a funny sound or had a light burnt out. There were no deadlines, and the big insurance premium was paid. I did not have a thing in the world to worry about.

  Then the phone rang.

  It was one of my kids telling me she was driving to Las Vegas and not to worry. Not to worry? Now I had to devote at least five hours to wondering if the car would break down or if some crazy would cross the center line and run her off the road.

  Suppose someone ripped off her credit cards and money. Five hours out of a perfectly good day sitting around waiting for a police officer to call and say “I have someone here who wants to talk to you. Speak up. She’s in traction.”

  Five hours of unrelenting fear. Would she reach over to change stations on the radio and hit a horse that ran out in front of the car? Would she drop into a roadside place for a hamburger and be dragged out on the road by a motorcycle gang who did wheelies around her? Would a sheriff running for governor pick her up for alleged speeding and accuse her of a crime for which he needed a suspect because he wanted national press coverage?

  When the phone rang again, it was another child, who informed me he was going fishing in a rubber raft in the ocean.

  “I hope you’re not considering going this weekend,” I said. “I’m already half crazy worrying about your sister driving to Las Vegas, which is going to take at least five hours of misery and mental anguish.”

  “We’re only going to be out for about four hours.”

  I was going to wash my hair, but what’s a mother to do? I canceled that in case a Soviet submarine surfaced just under their boat and dumped them into the Pacific. Or what if they caught a fish so gigantic it pulled their boat out into the open sea? Of course, there was always a strong possibility of Jaws III coming to the beach for the summer, or a tidal wave they didn’t hear about because a rock station didn’t carry the news.

  By my calculations, I had 10 or 12 hours of worry ahead of me when I heard from my third child. “Don’t tell me,” I said. “You’re climbing Mount Everest in tennis shoes just to punish your mother.”

  “Actually,” he said, “I’m staying home this weekend.”

  I couldn’t believe his insensitivity. Now I had to worry that he had no friends or social life. Unable to relate to any
one, he would become more and more withdrawn and finally trust no one. Eventually, he would pull his blinds and eat out of a saucepan on the stove. I would never go to his wedding, where everyone said, “She looks too young to be his mother.” I would never dangle grandchildren on my knee, where people would say, “She looks too young to have grandchildren.”

  What are they trying to do to me?

  My Son’s Answering Machine—June 22, 1986

  About three years ago, my son, who lives in another state, got an answering machine. At first I resented it. I knew as sure as God made little green apples the kid was lying in bed with the machine turned on, listening to me having an anxiety attack and loving it.

  But after a while, the machine began to take on a human quality. It had such fine manners. It would say softly, “Hi, I’m not here right now, but if you would leave your name and your phone number, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. At the sound of the beep, you have ten seconds. Have a good day now.” My son never would have said that!

  Somehow I couldn’t bring myself to say what I had called for. (“You bum! Is your arm broken? I have stretch marks around my knees and you don’t have five minutes to talk to your mother!”) So I ended up saying, “I know you’re busy. I was just checking to see if you’re alive. I hardly hurt at all today. You have a good day too.”

  Throughout the year, the machine and I continued to communicate on a regular basis. As I told my husband, “I’ve never had a relationship that was so satisfying. That little monkey was always there for me when I needed it. You know how you call some people and the phone rings and rings and rings...not this one. Why, even our son used to brush me off. Someone was always honking a horn or a buzzer was going off or his car was being stolen as we spoke. But not the machine.”

  On Christmas in ’84 it actually played “Silent Night” for me and before the beep wished me a Merry Christmas. It meant the world to me. It was such a sweet, simple thing to do. No whining around about how the gift was in the mail or how the airlines were booked and he couldn’t get home, just a sincere little electronic Christmas card.