by Erma Bombeck
Help us dispose of our aluminum foil from our baked potato before we eat half of it; remind us to retrieve our knife from the salad plate before it goes back to the kitchen, leaving us defenseless for the meat course; and deliver us from air conditioners over our table that blow out our only source of heat—a candle.
I’m a college graduate. I can operate my own pepper mill. Why doesn’t it twist? What’s wrong with it? There’s nothing coming out of it. Maybe I’m twisting it the wrong way.
I heard somewhere that pepper causes bad skin.
Grandma’s Grudges—May 1, 1984
This is the first family reunion our family has planned since Grandma died. Frankly, it’s going to be the biggest mess in the world. Grandma was the only one who kept track of who was speaking to whom...and why.
Grandma was an apostle of grudges. She believed if you paid attention and kept a firm grip on things, you could go to a funeral and the deceased would know you were only there because you shared the same mother and father. You could fall into disfavor with Grandma for a number of reasons. Each carried its own grudge sentence.
“You didn’t answer your phone when I called because you knew it was me” (four years).
“You never paid me the three dollars when we went in on flowers for Margaret’s funeral” (18 years).
“I was the last one to hear you were expecting” (two years).
“When you looked through my photo albums, my picture of Dad was there. When you left, it was gone” (25 years).
“You know!” (This was the dreaded grudge that lasted for life.)
I remember going to one reunion where you needed a program to know which side of the picnic table to sit on. I approached Marie, one of my cousins, and said, “Are we speaking to each other this year?”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“Why?”
“I never thanked your mother for the pen and pencil set the year I graduated.”
“How old are you now, Marie?”
“I’m forty-seven, but I’m gonna write her tonight.”
I felt my grandmother looking at me.
“I’ll check in with you next year,” I said.
My grandma was really a nice lady. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for you, but she had a sense of justice that when you had been wronged, you had to make it right. I once asked her what it would take to get my Aunt Jeanette to be welcome in her house. (Grandma sent home a loaf of freshly baked bread with her once, and she never returned the pan.) Grandma thought a bit and said, “Grovel. She would have to grovel.”
The other day my mother got a thank-you note for a pen and pencil set. “Who’s Marie?” she asked.
“She’s the one at the reunion who grabbed the picnic table in the shade for her family.”
Grandma would have sentenced her to 10 years for that!
Houseguests—August 6, 1985
My mom has a plaque just inside her front door that reads, If we get to drinking Sunday afternoon and start insisting that you stay over until Tuesday, please remember we don’t mean it.
My mother likes houseguests as well as the next one, but let’s be realistic. Houseguests should be regarded as perishables. Leave them out too long, and they go bad.
It is rare when you can unite in holy wedlock two families in one house any longer than 48 hours without the hostess attacking her welcome mat with a steak knife. Some families eat at 4:30 in the afternoon. Others fall right out of the happy hour into bed.
Some guests consider a picnic in the park as a forced death march while others, if allowed to sit around and watch TV for more than an hour, whine, “We can do this at home. We want to see something!” It’s a game.
Take Len and Bernadine. Take their children Puberty and Sissy. Take their dog, Carl. Please.
We could hardly wait until they came for a visit. Hadn’t seen them in six years. You forget a lot in six years.
We forgot that Bernadine was a vegetarian but was allergic to 18 vegetables and nine fruits.
We forgot that when Len snored, cattle became restless 40 miles away.
Somehow, we had forgotten that Puberty was lightfingered, so you had to hide your purse in the vegetable crisper in the refrigerator.
There were a lot of little things: the fact that Sissy could bounce a ball against your bedroom window at six in the morning 5,786 times without missing.
We had forgotten that Len and Bernadine each smoked three packs of cigarettes a day and kept assuring us we would get hit by a beer truck driven by the surgeon general before the smoke got us.
It had slipped my mind that Bernadine never touched a dish, because “I don’t know where they belong,” nor a washer, because “I don’t want to break it,” or came into the kitchen, because “I don’t want to get in your way.”
It’s the sandlot game. If you are hospitable, you can’t seem to get a hit. You get walked a lot. You strike out a lot. You sit on the bench helplessly and let it all happen.
And then, on the last day of their visit, Len and Bernadine said, “You know, you should get a booster for your hot water. We’ve been taking cold showers since we got here.”
They had forgotten something too. They had forgotten that my husband in his infinite wisdom had installed the hot water spigot on the cold water and the cold water spigot on the hot water.
Visitors: 138. Home: 1.
Restaurant Conversation—October 20, 1985
The other day I was trying to remember when restaurants were places where you sat down, ordered, ate, talked to one another and left. There were no introductions, no social amenities and no monologues. Oh, occasionally a group of waiters and waitresses would hoist a cupcake with a sparkler on it and sing “Happy Birthday,” but it was no big deal.
The other night we drove into the restaurant parking lot, and the valet opened the doors and said, “My name is Hal and I’ll keep an eye on your car. Have a good dinner.”
I said, “Thank you, Hal. I’m Erma and this is my husband, Bill, and our friends, Dick and Bernice.”
Inside, after we were seated, a young woman appeared and said, “Good evening. My name is Wendy, and I’m your cocktail waitress. What could I get you this evening?”
I introduced all of us again and we ordered something from the bar.
My husband leaned over and said, “So Dick, what’s happening?”
A waiter brought a basket of bread to our table and said, “Good evening, folks. I’m Brick, and these are our special toasted garlic rounds with just a hint of Parmesan and fresh parsley. If you need more, yell. Enjoy.”
“Thanks, Brick,” my husband said. “So, what’s happening, Dick?”
Another waiter appeared and said, “Hello, I’m Stud, and I’ll be your waiter for this evening. I’d like to interrupt just a minute to tell you about our specials for this evening. The chef has prepared osso buco. This is made with knuckle of veal, garlic, chicken sauce, white wine, tomato paste and anchovy fillets finely chopped.
“The catch of the day is smoked cod’s roe, which the chef makes into tarama salata smothered with black olives, heavy cream, lemon and olive oil. The soup of the day is everyone’s favorite, watercress and apple, with just a pinch of curry. I’ll give you a minute to decide.”
Numbly, we looked at one another. His monologue had lasted longer than most marriages.
“So, Dick, what’s happening with you?” my husband began.
Wendy reappeared and said, “Refills anyone?”
We shook our head.
Stud followed her to the table and said, “Are we ready to order now?”
No sooner had Dick and Bernice agreed to share a salad when a table appeared and Stud narrated the drama of the birth of Caesar salad like a midwife.
Meanwhile, Frank (the chef) appeared with a naked fish, which he stuck under my nose for approval. (Thank God I didn’t order the strangled duck!) After the salad came another table with flames leaping off it, and Stud electrified us with his commentary
on sauce for the Moroccan meatballs.
Arthur appeared with a key around his neck and a book that weighed 36 pounds and introduced himself as our wine steward. I introduced him to Bill, Dick and Bernice.
When we got into the car, my husband said, “I’d like to get together again and get to know you.”
“Thanks,” Hal said.
“I was talking to Dick and Bernice,” my husband said.
Hors d’Oeuvres—December 5, 1985
About 20 years ago, my husband and I were invited to an open house for about 200 people. As open houses go, there was nothing really significant about it. We didn’t meet anyone we later married, and no one fell in the punch bowl.
However, we did discover something on that day we would remember the rest of our lives: Hors d’oeuvres do not flush. We would have to think of some other way to get rid of them.
The problem with these before-dinner snacks is that there is no way of knowing what you are about to eat until it is in your mouth. Then it is too late. They do not break down by chewing. Sometimes swallowing does it. Sometimes not. Heaven only knows what is heaped on those little crackers and dry triangles of toast.
In the beginning, a hostess set out a dish of nuts to stave off hunger. Then someone found a cute cracker and arranged it on a plate. The next hostess decided a cracker looked naked and put a slice of cheese on it. From that came the dips.
I made a promise to myself never to eat anything that was navy blue or khaki green or excited the dog when it hit the floor. When a hostess dumped a package of dry onion-soup mix into some sour cream, I knew it was a threat to every rule I had made.
I’m a social outcast at dips. Some people instinctively know the stress factor involved in how much a chip can hold. I never know that. When it breaks, my hand is thrust into the bowl, and all night I have a white residue of garlic and sour cream under my fingernails.
What really frosts me is that a hostess will never reveal what she is serving on her hors d’oeuvres. “What’s this little brown thing on top?” I ask. “What do you think it is?” she chirps.
I then get 20 questions to come up with the answer. “Is it living or dead? Is it American? Is it in politics or the arts? Would I be likely to find it in my house? Is it bigger than a breadbox? Is it considered to be a gourmet treat in this country but bait everywhere else? Does it run under a rock whenever there are bathers nearby? Did it look like this when it was young?”
I have never objected to a little mystery in cooking, but things have gotten out of hand. I have a whole season of hors d’oeuvres ahead of me, two months of strange little lumps of unidentifiable things being snatched from freezers and popped into microwaves to challenge my mind. Let us pray someone starts building a better hors d’oeuvre...or a better toilet. It doesn’t matter which comes first.
Family Goodbyes—July 28, 1994
When I married into my husband’s family, I was surprised when we spent an evening with them, said goodbye, got into the car and left.
Saying goodbye in my family is not so simple. I leave with a watermelon balanced between my knees, leftover meatloaf for my lunch the next day, bags of homemade noodles, a “start” off a vine from the backyard, and a pie pan being returned from the pie I sent home with them. Sometimes I get an ugly piece of furniture they were going to throw away anyway.
My late sister was the worst. She’d start stacking things up on the kitchen counter while you were there. The longer you visited, the less counter space there was. She gave you beans she had canned, potholders she had sewn and a bucket of fresh cherries as parting gifts. If she had bought two pounds of bacon on sale, she felt obliged to give you one. “I got a bag of homemade frozen turtle soup for you,” she said.
“I hated turtle soup last year, I hate it this year and I will still hate it next year,” I reminded her. “Too bad,” she said. “You’re not going home empty-handed.”
This practice is an enigma to my husband.
The only explanation I can think of is that I come from a line of Ohio farmers. They were rural people who shared their harvest with anyone who came to the door. When they moved to the cities, they brought the practice with them.
Our tools and personal things are so inbred at this point, we don’t know whom they belong to. We borrow maternity clothes, cars that have big trunks, paintbrushes, dishes, grills, lawn furniture, card tables, folding chairs and cots. For a period of 15 years, one set of luggage went back and forth and did more traveling than Charles Kuralt. We never wanted to know where it had been.
I read stories of what I can do with my leftover turkey and sweet potatoes after the holidays. I never have any leftovers. Everything gets parceled out in plastic bags and goes to new owners.
There is a downside to this game of musical food, clothes and household belongings.
The other night after dinner at Mother’s, I was laden with a box of wild rice that she bought without her glasses, an unbaked pie crust that was about to expire, and candy bars left over from Halloween. “Wait a minute,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to give you this dress. I hated it from the moment I bought it. It never fit right, and it’s not my color.”
“I bought that dress,” I said, “and gave it to you.”
Our eyes met. She smiled and said, “I’ll send it home with your cousin Dede with a nice pie.”
Planning Birthday Celebrations—November 8, 1994
I like to get together with my family and bond as well as the next person, but getting all of us together at one time anymore is like Dole and Clinton doing lunch.
It was always a tradition that the family celebrate one another’s birthdays. If the birthday is in April, I begin calling the family in December. “Don’t forget April twenty-seventh,” I remind them.
“Well, you can’t have a celebration on the twenty-seventh. That falls on Wednesday. It’s got to be early on the weekend of the twenty-third or late on the thirtieth.
“I pick late on the thirtieth,” says the sibling who shops in a car-wash for a gift on his way to the celebration, waits for the first gift to be opened, snatches the paper and runs to the bathroom to wrap it.
In February, I call them all again.
“I can’t do it either of those weekends. I have plans,” says another one.
“I told you to protect that date.”
“What date? It wasn’t firm.”
“I’m taking my car in on the twenty-sixth. It may not be finished in time.”
“What’s wrong with May seventh?” says another voice.
“Totally wrong. I don’t get paid until the fifteenth.”
“Is anyone busy the second week of May?”
“I’m helping a friend move. She has a piano.”
“OK,” I say, “June fourteenth.”
“That’s my birthday,” says my daughter. “I don’t want to share a birthday. The next thing you know, we’ll be having one of those Reverend Moon mass weddings for seven hundred people. We’ll just line up and pass out birthday cards.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Let’s get one birthday settled at a time. We’re working on April twenty-seventh. Are you available in July?”
“No!”
“August?”
“Too hot.”
“September?”
“That’s my birthday,” said another son, “and we haven’t celebrated it from last year. It’s still on hold.”
“Anyone who sends each member of the family a subscription to TV Guide—and we never see it—deserves to be on hold.”
“Why don’t we just do it October sixth?”
“I can’t make it. I’ll be out of town.”
“Who cares?”
“It’s my birthday!”
Of Missing Socks, Promiscuous Hangers and Other Unexplained Phenomena
Socks Lost in Washer—May 28, 1969
DON’T TELL ME ABOUT the scientific advances of the twentieth century.
So men are planning a trip to the moon. So computers
run every large industry in America. So body organs are being transplanted like perennials.
Big deal! You show me a washer that will launder a pair of socks and return them to you as a pair, and I’ll light a firecracker.
I never had what you would call a good relationship with washers. They hate me. They either froth at the lid, walk across the utility room or just plain quit. But mostly they have a sock deficiency that defies reason.
Men don’t understand this. They are too rational. My washer repairman leads the list.
“If your socks don’t come out even, lady, that means you didn’t put them in even,” he said flatly.
I looked at him closely. (How can you trust a repairman who looks like Barnabas on Dark Shadows?) “I remembered distinctly gathering them two by two. Believe me, Noah didn’t do a more complete job. I took two black ones from my son’s sleeping feet, a red pair from the tennis bag, a stiff pair from his ceiling, a mud-caked pair from the glove compartment of the car and a moldy pair from two boots. You can see for yourself I have only one of each. The mates have disappeared.”
“You’ve got a pale blue pair that match,” he said.
“Of course we’ve got a pale blue pair, you cluck. We hate the pale blue pair. They come out of the washer even when we don’t put them in. This washer is just plain insolent. Don’t you understand that?”
“I mean no disrespect, lady,” he stammered, “but you aren’t a tippler, are you?”
“I think inside this washer is a little trap door that pulls in one sock from each pair and holds it captive. Somewhere in this machine lies a secret treasure house of mismated socks.”
“Maybe just a little cold one to get you through your ironing?”
“If we could just find it, do you know what that would mean?”