Forever, Erma

by Erma Bombeck

  There are so many priceless bits of memorabilia in my possession, I hardly know where to begin. I want to be fair. There’s a glass lid that belonged to a cast-iron skillet given to me by my grandmother. The skillet’s lost, but the lid doesn’t have a crack in it. No sense having some attorney rip it off. I offered it to the child who would take care of it. Each one humbly refused it. Those little monkeys always surprise you.

  So far, I’ve dispersed a hand-blown glass sea urchin I bought at Disneyland, a coconut shell necklace from Hawaii and a book of Emerson’s essays that looks real old, plus a piece of sheet music with a picture of Martha Raye before she had dentures, and Christmas ornaments that we had on our first tree.

  Every time I part with my class ring or a clothespin painted like a pig that holds a recipe, a little of me dies with it. The other day when my son was visiting, I placed a box before him and smiled. “We only have our todays.”

  “Is this another living bequest?” he asked.

  “This is the rug I hand-hooked for your nursery. Remember the little sailboat and the seagulls?”

  “I remember,” he said solemnly.

  “Remember that it took your mother twelve years to finish it at an expense of $140...$90 in yarn alone.”

  Last night I saw the rug in his apartment. It was lining the dog bed.

  I tell you, I’m not going until all this is settled!

  Fashion Trends Pioneer—October 11, 1987

  We visited friends recently, and their kids marched in dutifully to say hello.

  Their son was wearing a pair of faded jeans that looked like they had been rescued from a coral reef. His shirt was frayed, and there was a hole in the elbow. His small sister was wearing jeans so thin her knees showed through. They were stuffed in a pair of high-top gym shoes without laces. She topped it with a jacket three sizes too big and tattered at the cuffs. If it hadn’t been for the two quartz watches on their arms, they could have passed for a couple of Waltons.

  I whispered to my husband, “How can they afford to dress their kids like that? Ed doesn’t make that kind of money. Those outfits must have set him back a couple of hundred dollars.”

  My husband looked at me with disbelief. “Our kids dress like that.”

  “Yes, but that is because you have a clever wife,” I countered. “I don’t follow trends. I create them. Who do you think invented acid-bleached and stone-washed jeans? Moi, that’s who. Every major fashion breakthrough in the last twenty years started in my utility room.

  “Take pastel shirts for men. I had no idea I was charting a new course in fashion history the day I put all of your shirts in the wash with a new set of red towels. No one expected to see a high school principal roam the halls in pink shirts week after week, but within a year, if you remember, manufacturers were bringing out shirts in shades of pink, blue and yellow, and you know the rest.

  “Some trends surprise even me. Like the Monday morning our son got up late and we had been out late Sunday and I didn’t have a chance to iron his shirt and the bus was honking the horn and he tore out of the house wearing the top to his ski pajamas. Well, the next thing you know the entire Star Trek crew on the Enterprise was wearing pajama tops, and the rest is history.

  “I don’t purposely set out to change the destiny of style. It just happens. I’ll be honest with you. The day I inadvertently knocked over a bottle of bleach and it snaked across my best blouse, I never dreamt that I had invented tie-dye. And who would have believed that story of the pure silk blouse with the dry-clean-only label on it that I stupidly put into the washer? When it came out limp and wrinkled, I called it ‘raw silk’ and now everyone is buying it.”

  “I had no idea all those fashion trends were yours,” my husband said, as he lifted his pant leg. “Are you telling me it’s only a matter of time before everyone in the country will be wearing one black sock and one burgundy?”

  “Trust me,” I said. “Any day now Neiman and Marcus will both be wearing them.”

  Shoulder Pads—December 1, 1988

  It’s not as if I don’t already have enough lumps on my body to keep track of. Now I’ve got shoulder pads.

  Why did I think that after a couple of seasons, they’d go away? Every time I bought a blouse or a dress, the first thing I did was rip out the shoulder pads. The minute I did that, I was punished. The shoulders dropped, making my chest look like I was backing out of a room. The sleeves covered my hands, and the hems dragged on the floor. I couldn’t walk into a room where people didn’t look at me and ask, “What happened?”

  Shoulder pads were designed using the same principle as fun-house mirrors: Make the top of you look wide, and in contrast the bottom of you will look small. This is true, but I always feel as if I’m Scarlett O’Hara wearing the draperies with the rods still in them.

  For some strange reason, I never throw the shoulder pads away. They’re like those subscription cards that fall out of magazines. I save them and hate myself for not being able to throw them away. When my discarded pads spilled out of two drawers and threatened to take over my bedroom, I finally admitted to myself that they were here to stay.

  Now I play a little game called the Shoulder Pad Chase (suitable for ages 15-79, one player at a time, batteries not included). You are standing around at a party making conversation when you feel your entire left shoulder slump forward. You cast your eyes downward to see a chest that gives, new meaning to the phrase “peaks and valleys.” You are a victim of a wandering shoulder pad. Your mission is to get it back on the shoulder where it belongs without attracting attention.

  There are ways. There’s the Fake Cough, where you throw your head forward, at the same time jerking your left shoulder back, hoping the pad will balance on your shoulder once again.

  There’s the Bumping into the Wall Ploy, where you pass by the corner of a wall to reposition the pad. A riskier way is Shock Reaction, where you grab your throat in horror at what is being said, and in a movement that is faster than the speed of light, slip your hand inside your dress and hike the shoulder pad back to its original position. When I see someone staring at my bulges, I usually say lamely, “I retain water.”

  All this is reminiscent of the old joke in which a woman used to store two nose tissues in her bra, and one night when she was fishing around and got caught, she said, “Funny, I had two of them when I came here.”

  Some people have it down to a science. As my husband watched a pro football game the other night, 22 men came out on the field in shoulder pads that would have thrown Donna Karan into shock. The pads never moved! I think they were implants.

  Comfortable Shoes—September 14, 1989

  Attention, Sisters of America! I want you to hear it from me first. I have just sold out. On my feet are a pair of running shoes that cost more than the monthly payment on our first house—and I don’t even run. Nor do I intend to.

  All the reasons I wore heels no longer exist for me. Forget the fat ankles. Forget about looking tall. Forget about trying to entwine one leg around the other like poison oak climbing a tree trunk just to look sexy. I’m going to be com...comfor...I can’t say the word yet, but it will come.

  I am like the kid at a college commencement I addressed last year who approached the platform on crutches. As soon as they gave him his degree, he threw the crutches into the air and shouted, “I can walk!”

  I have left that majority of women who vow to wear uncomfortable shoes because they look good. The transformation takes a bit of getting used to.

  My husband said the other day, “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’m not wearing heels, and I’m shorter.”

  “Shorter! You could walk under the coffee table. I thought short women were supposed to wear heels to make them look taller.”

  “Woody Allen wears sneakers, and no one worries about his height,” I said.

  “That’s because men never play the game women play,” he countered.

  Unknowingly, he had put
his finger on the problem. Men have always dressed com...comfor...it’ll come. Think about it. Would a man wear anything with a zipper he couldn’t reach? Of course not. Unlike women, they never get married because they can’t dress themselves.

  You don’t see a man sitting around all night in pain because a label (made out of a double-edged razor blade) is digging into his neck every time he moves his head. Only women do that. Men have labels that are unflappable.

  And more important, you don’t see a man fishing around the floor of a theater with his feet to find his shoes so he can get them back on before the lights come up.

  Yes sirree. You can snicker at my sneakers all you want, but I feel good about myself. I feel secure enough not to care about what other people think, but about how I feel. I’m not afraid to make fashion history.

  Tomorrow is the test. I’m going outside in them.

  Seize the Moment—June 25, 1991

  I have a friend who lives by a three-word philosophy: Seize the moment. Just possibly, she may be the wisest woman on this planet. Too many people put off something that brings them joy just because they haven’t thought about it, don’t have it on their schedule, didn’t know it was coming or are too rigid to depart from their routine.

  I got to thinking one day about all those women on the Titanic who passed up dessert at dinner that fateful night in an effort to cut back. From then on, I’ve tried to be a little more flexible.

  How many women out there will eat at home because their husband didn’t suggest going out to dinner until after something had been thawed? Does the word “refrigeration” mean nothing to you?

  How often have your kids dropped in to talk and sat in silence while you watched Jeopardy! on television?

  I cannot count the times I called my sister and said, “How about going to lunch in a half hour?” She would gasp and stammer, “I can’t.” Check one: “I have clothes on the line.” “My hair is dirty.” “I wish I had known yesterday.” “I had a late breakfast.” “It looks like rain.” And my personal favorite: “It’s Monday.”

  She died a few years ago. We never did have lunch together.

  Because Americans cram so much into their lives, we tend to schedule our headaches. We live on a sparse diet of promises we make to ourselves when all the conditions are perfect. We’ll go back and visit the grandparents—when we get Stevie toilet-trained. We’ll entertain—when we replace the living-room carpet. We’ll go on a second honeymoon—when we get two more kids out of college.

  Life has a way of accelerating as we get older. The days get shorter, and the list of promises to ourselves gets longer. One morning, we awaken, and all we have to show for our lives is a litany of “I’m going to,” “I plan on” and “Someday, when things are settled down a bit.”

  When anyone calls my “seize the moment” friend, she is open to adventure and available for trips. She keeps an open mind on new ideas. Her enthusiasm for life is contagious. You talk with her for five minutes, and you’re ready to trade your bad feet for a pair of Rollerblades and skip an elevator for a bungee cord.

  My lips have not touched ice cream in 10 years. I love ice cream. It’s just that I might as well apply it directly to my hips with a spatula and eliminate the digestive process.

  The other day, I stopped the car and bought a triple-decker. If my car had hit an iceberg on the way home, I would have died happy.

  Brain Capacity Is Limited—July 4, 1993

  I don’t pretend to know how the human mind works. My theory is that brain capacity is limited. You can store just so many phone listings, addresses, credit card numbers, names of former classmates, allergies and the date and year you bought the sofa, and you go on overload. You have to get rid of one statistic before you can add a new one.

  Whenever anyone tries to tell me something, I weigh the odds. Is that something I will ever need to know again unless I am chosen to appear on Jeopardy? Can I use it to impress someone? Or in a week, will anyone care?

  My husband seems to have a lot of useless information rattling around in his head, things that when he works them into a conversation cause people to stare at him like he’s overmedicated. He files away every fact he reads in his brain.

  I, on the other hand, never remember the ages of our children. They’re always changing anyway. I don’t clutter up my mind with recipes, the dates of my surgeries, the names of people who spell my name with an I.

  There was a time when I stored the spelling of a lot of words. I’ve stopped doing that too. What’s the point of knowing how to spell “inauguration” when you only use it every four years?

  I never record the addresses of our kids in ink in the Rolodex, let alone commit them to memory. They move too often and I’d go crazy reprogramming my brain.

  I don’t need to know my ring size, license numbers, the words to the old school fight song or how much pressure I use in my tires.

  It’s not important for me to retain how many years Burt and Loni were married or the names of all the Jacksons/Osmonds/ Seven Dwarfs.

  The point is, you can’t go around year after year stuffing information into your brain that you rarely use. That’s why, from time to time, I clean house. I get rid of all those excess dates and phone numbers. I may get halfway through a book before I realize I’ve already read it or watch a TV show that I have seen before, but in the long run I actually save a lot of time.

  When you get right down to it, there are only three things worth remembering: your Social Security number, the formula for your hair dye and how many hours you were in labor with your children.

  Let’s Face It, Not All Ruts Need Repair—April 17, 1996 (The last column Erma wrote)

  Well, Betty Crocker has had her eighth face-lift, and I’m sitting here looking like a car backed over my face.

  I’m not alone. There’s an army of women like me who talk about cosmetic surgery, but our philosophy prevails: No guts to live with the ruts.

  They shouldn’t call it “elective surgery.” That makes it too easy for women to get out of it. If they labeled it “Body 911,” they would put another spin on it.

  Frankly, I didn’t think Betty was all that shallow. She’s not a model on a runway for crying out loud. She’s selling cake mix.

  Did Uncle Ben hit 45 and go out and buy a rug? Did Colonel Sanders lose the glasses and get contacts? Did Ben Franklin feel the need for an earring in his ear?

  Someone observed Betty looks like a working woman. Is that redundant or what! Besides, what does a working woman look like? Can you tell she’s wearing damp pantyhose just by looking?

  I can look on my shelves and figure out how old my pancake flour is by the shape of Aunt Jemima’s face. She gets younger every year.

  Why is there a need for these mythical characters to have cosmetic surgery? It’s like putting Mickey Mouse through puberty when he doesn’t have to.

  It’s bad enough when real people keep going back for repairs.

  When The Thorn Birds miniseries first aired on television, Richard Chamberlain was believable as a young, handsome priest, although his face was as smooth as a baby’s behind. Several years later in Thorn Birds II, his skin was as glassy as a frozen pond at midnight. If repairs continue, by Thorn Birds III he will not be able to frown, laugh, cry or make the sign of the cross without pulling something.

  Realistically, everyone grows old, but some characters don’t have to mess with the aging process. Miss Piggy doesn’t need a nose job. Barbie doesn’t need liposuction.

  I belong to the Mother Teresa school of skin care. So I didn’t moisturize enough. My deeds will be measured not by my youthful appearance, but by the concern lines on my forehead, the laugh lines around my mouth and the chins from seeing what can be done for those smaller than me or who have fallen.

  As for Betty Crocker, she is fooling no one with that collarless blouse and youthful smile. She’s pushing 106!

  Tributes

  Sister Agnes Immaculata S.N.D.N., from a letter to the familyr />
  I WISH TO ASSURE you of my deep and prayerful sympathy in the loss you have sustained in the death of your beloved wife and mother, Erma. Now in my 99th year, as I look back over the years, I consider it a priceless privilege to have known Erma personally. As Dean of Women at the University of Dayton, I was associated with Erma for some years during the 1940s.

  How the angels must have smiled as she entered Paradise!

  I assure you of my continuing prayers for you and your family.

  May God’s special blessings be yours always.

  Norma Born, from her tribute at the memorial service

  This is a pretty intimidating assemblage for someone who is terrified of public speaking, but I have to try to do this—for Erma and for myself.

  The author of this poem is unknown and can’t sue me for copyright infringement—I hope—so I’ve taken the liberty of changing the original gender. It’s titled “The Measure of a Woman.”

  Not—“How did she die?” But—“How did she live?”

  Not—“What did she gain? But—“What did she give?”

  These are the units to measure the worth

  Of a woman as a woman, regardless of birth.

  Not—“What was her station?” But—“Had she a heart?”

  And—“How did she play her God-given part?”

  Was she ever ready with a word of good cheer,

  To bring back a smile, to banish a tear?

  Not—“What was her shrine?” Nor—“What was her creed?”

  But—“Had she befriended those really in need?”

  Not—“What was her way?”

  But—“How many were sorry when she passed away?”

  For she left a good name that will remain always.

  Art Buchwald, The Washington Post, April 23, 1996