Richard's Day Off

It was 7:00 on a recent cold, snowy Friday morning and Richard had taken the day off to unwind and pack before he and I were to leave the following Monday for a week's vacation in hot, un-snowy Florida. I watched our dogs, Phoebe and Ava, frolic in the snow through the window of the sunroom. All was calm, all was bright.

Phoebe trotted off to the left side of the yard towards the garden while Ava started to amble toward the wooded area in the back.

And that's when I noticed something that looked like Phoebe walking toward Ava. But, as far as I knew, Phoebe was still licking snow off the plants in the garden. The Phoebe-colored thing was just strolling along next to the fence when Ava saw it and began barking. The Phoebe-colored thing lunged at Ava just as the real Phoebe-colored thing (Phoebe) hurdled her short self over the bushes by the garden to help Ava. I couldn't tell what the thing was, but whatever it was wasn't nice -- at all.

So, Richard's day off began with me screaming, "Richard! Oh my God! There's something attacking the dogs!" Richard was downstairs in his office watching Fox News, therefore, ignoring me. So, I screamed a few more times until my voice was able to break the spell that Fox & Friends had on him.

Always ready with a sarcastic remark, but, more important, in an emergency, Richard leapt to his feet and ran outside. He immediately ran back inside. "It's a raccoon! They're vicious animals!" As if out of mid-air he assembled hiking boots, safety goggles, and leather gloves.

Because I'd only ever seen raccoons looking cute up in a tree, I had recently asked Richard how he knew raccoons were such vicious animals. He said, "Because I'm 50 years old and I have a (insert name of male-appendage-of-your-choice here, please.) That's the same reason he gives to Veronica and me when explaining why he doesn't let us drive his BMW. Lucas, on the other hand, has his very own memorized seat setting in it.

I looked outside and saw a tumbleweed of blood and fur rolling across the snow. It never occurred to me that the dogs could get hurt. I've seen them "catch and release" many small animals such as squirrels, chipmunks, and mice. The fact that the aforementioned animals were always dead upon "release" made me feel confident that Ava and Phoebe could "catch" the raccoon.

Richard came running back in and grabbed the heavy wooden dowel we use to keep one of the sliding doors closed in the sunroom because Phoebe can open it. I found this out a few years ago when I was gardening. I watched as she used her paws and snout to slide the door open so she could do a few laps in the pool. If only she knew how to close it.  

Richard instructed me to get the dogs' leashes and come outside. I retrieved the leashes, put on my pink Isaac Mizrahi snow boots and ran outside. Richard and Phoebe had subdued the raccoon enough so that I could wrangle Ava into her leash. Getting Phoebe to release the thing was going to prove to be harder because she tends to be very goal-oriented, and, let's just say, her "goal" was only disoriented. Using the dowel, Richard held the raccoon at bay while I managed to get her leash on and drag both dogs back into the house. Richard stayed behind. He had no choice but to put the mangled raccoon out of its misery.

The dogs were wet from the snow and covered with blood and fur. I cleaned them up with warm, damp towels so I could see where the blood was coming from.

Ava had small scratches above one eye and near her nose. Phoebe sustained a nasty gash across her nose, a pierced ear, and gouges way too close for comfort near both eyes. Richard walked in just as I was giving each of them "Composure Calming" chewies.  Ava gets the chewies on a daily basis for her general anxiety. She has issues. Richard looked at the package and said, "Can I have one?"

I called our vet who told me to bring them right in. We brought the dogs to Dr. Ben's office and the first thing he did was ask Richard if he had been bitten or scratched. "No," he said, "but if I need rabies shots, I'm getting them at the Bellagio hotel in Vegas."

Neither dog needed stitches but Dr. Ben prescribed antibiotics. He also told us not to worry about rabies because bats are the real rabies carriers in Illinois. Besides, they were up-to-date on their rabies shots. He also advised us to call the animal warden in case the city wanted to test the raccoon anyway, and said he'd fill out any forms that might be necessary.

We came home and Ava and Phoebe slept for about two days straight. But there was still a dead raccoon in our backyard. We roused the dogs for walks, and let them out in the dog run, but we couldn't let them out in backyard while the raccoon was still there.

When I left to go to work at the park district around noon, Richard called the animal warden. He later texted me that no one answered so he had left a message and then used a shovel to put the raccoon "on ice" in the wheelbarrow by the side of the house until it could be picked up. He said in his text, "The dogs and I are visiting the somber battlefield. It's like Gettysburg."

When I got home from work Richard said he had left another message for the animal warden who still hadn't returned his call. "I know what's going to happen," he said, "they're going to do an autopsy on that thing and they're going to say that the dogs didn't kill it. They're going to say that it died from blunt trauma to the head. I'm going to be thrown in jail, and the dogs are going to be sitting at my desk, going through my mail."

The animal warden still hadn't called back by Saturday so Richard called the police, knowing that even though he was being a good citizen, his life as a free man was at stake. He was somewhat relieved to reach the chief of police who he happened to know because they had worked on various city council commissions together. He explained the whole thing and even confessed to being the actual "killer." The police chief told him there wouldn't be an investigation into the death of the raccoon and that he'd call the animal warden himself.

Ten minutes later, the obviously harried animal warden arrived and apologized for not retuning any of Richard's calls, "It's my first week on the job," he said. "I don't know if I'm coming or going." I wondered if it would be his last week after seeing why we had called. 

As I peeked out from a window upstairs I saw Richard take the shovel and try to get the raccoon out of the wheelbarrow. But it had become, as he put it, "a raccoon-sicle" and was frozen to the inside of wheelbarrow. He and the animal warden worked to dig it out, even pulling on its tail, something I really wish I hadn't seen, and finally popped the thing out. Then I saw Richard drop it into a Hefty bag before the animal warden heaved it up and over into the back of his paddy wagon.

I think the whole thing was very Darwinian because no raccoon in its right mind would want to tangle with 140 pounds of dog mutt on purpose. If it had a good old working raccoon brain it would have said to itself, "Holy crap! Enemy! Enemy! Must climb tree!" or whatever raccoon self-talk sounds like. The dogs had been in the yard for a few minutes before the raccoon even appeared. It could have easily climbed the wooden fence or found some way out of our yard. It just shouldn't have been there in broad daylight in the first place. That's what happens when you disobey raccoon curfew.

The ordeal was over. The raccoon had been removed, and the dogs were resting comfortably.
When Veronica and Lucas got home later, I told them what had happened and they promised to take extra special care of the dogs while we were away. As we were packing I said to Richard,  "I'll bet you're looking forward to our trip." Richard looked at me and said, "If my day off yesterday is any indication of how our vacation is going to go, then I'd have to say no.'"

But, we had a great trip. We flew in, rented a convertible (fun!), and then drove across the southern part of the state from Ft. Myers to Key Biscayne to visit family and friends.

The only tell-"tail"reminder of Richard's day off was the occasional dream during which his legs appeared to be running and he made what could only be described as growling sounds. I'll get more Composure.

Smelt Fest

According to my records, which, in reality, are stories told to me by old-timers who have been smelting for decades, smelt used to be plentiful in the Great Lakes. Depending on which old-timer I spoke to, you’d just drop the net into the water, and using a pulley system, yank in hundreds, thousand, or even cruiseshipfuls of ‘em.

But, in the seven years or so I’ve been working Smelt Fest for the Park District, the total number of smelt I’ve seen caught rounds out to about eight. However, legend has it that the smelt ran in these here parts like, well, lots and lots of running smelt. I don’t know how they ran because they’re little silver fish without feet.

Speaking of legends, every year at Smelt Fest we have this salty guy who sings “shanties” (songs of the sea) throughout the night. But, as I listened to each song The Salty Guy sang, it occurred to me that every shanty ever written is basically a variation of “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,” by Gordon Lightfoot.

It also became apparent to me that The Sea has more attitude than all of The Real Housewives of New Jersey put together. The lyrics of each song The Salty Guy sang were more hateful than the last causing my mouth to drop open, and then slowly close, much like a smelt having an out of water experience.

To give you an example, one of the songs went like this: “Oh, the sailor went out, But he never came in, And he lost all his mates, And very sad were his kin.” The next song went something like this: “Oh, the children sleep well, But the orphans do not, For they live all alone, In their own little hell.”

Then there’s this little ditty: “Oh, she waited all night, By the shores of the sea, But the ship never came back, And neither did he. So she took her own life, But the children slept well, Except for the orphans, In their own little hell.” And, then there’s this one that illustrates just what a vindictive mistress the sea can be: “Oh, she waited all night, By the shores of the sea, But the ship never came back, And neither did he, So, she took her own life, But surprised she would be, Had she lived on to see, That he’d been on the other ship, And came back to his wife. (Ok. That one didn’t quite fit my rhyme scheme, but it proves the point.)

Yes, The Sea; She was angry this year during Smelt Fest, my friends. Well, actually, it was Lake Michigan, but “The Sea” sounds so much better. Anyway, “She” didn’t leave any widows or orphans at Smelt Fest, but she was quite choppy, and the wind was a-whippen.

I was one of the people helping pull in the nets off the pier. Over the years I have helped out at Smelt Fest in many capacities because I love being anywhere near or on Lake Michigan. I’ve fried ‘em, and I’ve served ‘em, but I won't eat 'em. I could maybe be coaxed into trying one if it were named “Rainbows and Glitterfish,” but smelt? I just can’t eat something called a smelt. It sounds like a Smurf with a communicable disease.

Now, for all of you Sea Fashionistas out there, I’ll give you the 411 on my Smelt-inspired outfit: I wore four pairs of mittens, five layers of assorted tops, a kicky little headband with super-cute yarn braids, and my fave bowler hat with an adorable wool rose on the side. I started off the night wearing the most fabu Isaac Mizrahi polka-dot rain boots, but as my feet began to get cold, I changed into my warm-as-toast black faux fur winter boots. I looked quite smashing, if I do say so myself. But, due to all of the layers of clothing, I looked like an overweight humpback whale.

But, back to the smelt at hand; the best thing about Smelt Fest, in my opinion, is how many old timers come back, year after year, and ask me the same exact thing: “How are the smelt runnin’?” I tell them they’re not runnin’ very well. I don’t say it’s because they’re fish and they don’t have feet, because that would just be rude. And even though they all say, “We used to come out here and pull in hundreds, or even thousands of ‘em,” I never get tired of hearing it. It’s as if they’re hoping that schools and schools of smelt will magically appear again.

So, in honor of all the old-timers who come back to Smelt Fest year after year, I wrote a little shanty myself, and it goes a little something like this: “Oh, the smelt used to run, But they don’t run no more, So we go out and get ‘em, From a Smelt-sellin' store. Then we bread ‘em and fry ‘em, And serve ‘em up hot, In a big pot of oil, On a Kenmore stovetop."

Maybe the smelt will start running again.  Maybe they'll even have little feet. And maybe the Blackhawks and Bulls will win a title. We all have fish stories.

Desperately Seeking Tracy

It would have been impossible for me not to have noticed him. He was attractive, but not in a conventional way. Like an alluring fragrance, his presence subtly drew me to him. His most marked characteristic was thick, shoulder-length, wavy, silver hair that actually looked good on a man about my age.

We passed each other briefly as I was walking into the drugstore, and he was walking out. I turned to catch another glimpse of his hair, and was surprised to see him turn around to look back at me. With desperate, hopeful eyes, he said, “Tracy?” as if I was someone he had lost many years ago and would have given anything to see again. Gently, I told him that I was not she. He apologized, but I told him there was no need. He smiled as he slowly lowered his head, and left.

As if I could somehow help him, or at least try to understand who he was looking for, I scanned my brain for any “Tracys” I might know. My friend Nancy has a daughter named Tracy, but surely he wasn’t confusing me with a Bat Mitzvah-aged pre-teen. The only other Tracy I could think of was someone I went to high school with who also lives in this area, but I don’t think we bear any resemblance. And, because I’m a girl, I thought to myself, “I hope this Tracy person is pretty, or at least nice, if he thinks I look like her.”

Had this been a Robert Redford indie-type film, I might have been Tracy, and the story would begin, or, maybe, continue from where silver-hair-guy and I had left off. Had it been a porn movie (and I’m just guessing here, because my exposure -- so to speak -- to porn consists of “Deep Throat,” like every other college students’ in the early ‘80’s) I’d say, “I’ll be Tracy if you want me to be,” and we’d end up rolling around in the lotion aisle.

I have always had a thing for guys with great hair. Hair was one of the things that attracted me to Richard. It certainly wasn’t his personality. But, I jest. When we met in Sunday School, his hair was longer than mine. It was wavy and thick. Mine was frizzy and big. Now, Richard’s hair is still thick and wavy, yet cropped close to his head. Mine is shorter, too, yet, still frizzy and big.

But, back to this Tracy person. As I walked around the store, looking for Zicam nasal decongestant spray, I kept thinking about my brief encounter with silver-hair-guy. And, because I believe things happen for a reason-- that there are no coincidences in life-- I felt as though he and I had connected with each other for that brief moment on purpose. I was walking in as he was walking out. Each of us was on a journey and needed to meet the other one for some cosmic reason at that precise moment. But what was the reason? Why was he searching for Tracy while I was searching for a product to unclog my nasal passages? I will probably never know.

For some reason (coincidence? I think not!), the “coincidence” vs. “things happen for a reason” discussion has come up a lot in conversations I’ve had with friends, recently. And, in my totally non-scientific experiences, I have found that some people are total “coincidence” people, while others are total “things happen for a reason” people, and, each person is very adamant about his or her position on the subject.

To me, the “coincidence” believers seem to be almost aggressive about the idea that we “things happen for a reason” people are, well, dope-smoking hippies, which I am, minus the dope-smoking part. The discussions I’ve had about “coincidence” vs. “things happen for a reason” have become as heated as discussions about evolution vs. creationism. And, let me say here, with no disrespect to you creationism people, “Darwin! Darwin! Darwin!”

Knowing I would probably never see silver-hair-guy again, and never find out who “Tracy” was, I had to let it go and continue my search for Zicam. Just as I gave up my search for a product that particular store didn’t have, I realized that neither silver-hair-guy or I found what we were looking for in that store that day.

Thought for the Day

If I only had a brain....

“Girls” Gone Wild

It was a very strange feeling. I knew something was amiss as I walked on the treadmill at the gym because “the girls” were not as harnessed in, close to my bosom, as I like them to be. I like them securely ensconced in a sports bra
-- especially when working out-- so I don’t accidentally receive a black eye, should I decide to increase my speed.

But, I walked for half an hour anyway, because if I had stopped to see where they were, I probably wouldn’t have gotten back on the treadmill. I know myself pretty well. I’ll use just about any excuse not to exercise. But, because the machine I was on was facing a second story window and not toward the gym, my bouncing bazoongas wouldn’t be encroaching upon anyone else’s space-- or creating a boob-ha-ha – so there wasn’t a good reason to cut my workout short.

Unlike men, who insist that they are “adjusting” themselves when caught with their hands down their pants, most women don’t publicly shove their hands into their bras to boldly put the boulders back where their boulders had gone before. So, I felt that tugging on my bra once or twice was acceptable gym etiquette. Anything more than that and I might have been asked to leave the premises and not return, which, by the way, would have been fine with me since, as stated previously, I don’t like to exercise. But, I didn’t want to be thrown out of the gym for a reason like that. I mean, who wants to be that person?

After I completed my workout, I dismounted the treadmill and went into a bathroom stall in the locker room to investigate. It was official: I had an honest to goodness wardrobe malfunction. “The girls” had busted out. Or, as I have heard Oprah say, “my Pointers had become Setters.”

Apparently, my sports bra had managed to creep up over Lucy and Ethel, leaving them swinging in the breeze underneath my t-shirt. The unlikely event of turbulence, eg: exercise, caused a change in cabin pressure, so they had fallen out like oxygen masks on a plane. But, like Victoria, this was my little secret. I was the only one who knew what had happened, so it wasn’t as if I had to walk with my head between my boobs out of the place. I was just thankful that they hadn't dropped so far as to hit the control panel of the treadmill, causing me to unwittingly spring into a trot by changing the speed.

So, “the girls” had been Hanging Around. Big deals. I heaved them back into the sports bra, went home, and immediately washed my workout clothes, taking special care to throw the offending sports bra into the dryer so it would shrink back into shape.

I am very careful now when I get dressed to go to the gym. I wrap those puppies up so tightly they’d have to sprout teeth to chew through my clothes like a chain-link fence.

No, I wear them close to the chest, now. They’re not always very happy about that, but it just makes sense to make sure my convicts don’t escape. As Janis Joplin once sang, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose,” but I don’t think she even wore a bra.

I Love you, Eileen Fisher

So, my parents gave Richard and me a huge gift for Hanukkah. By huge, I mean a check that was the size of an inheritance. And, boy did we need it.

We have college tuition for one child, and college tuition coming up for another in a year. We are pretty frugal, but sometimes, you just need to get the roof fixed, or, when the washing machine decides the spin cycle means it should dump gallons of water onto your floor, you need to have that looked into.

So, normally, when receiving a check of any amount, I usually put it right into the checking account so we can pay our bills. But, this time, Richard said, “Take this check and go buy some nice clothes.” I did. I put that check into the checking account via the drive-thru at the bank, and went directly to the Eileen Fisher store in town.

I was a little hesitant as I turned onto Central Avenue, knowing that finding a parking spot at noon-ish the day before Thanksgiving even blocks away from the store would be a mirage. But, there it was, right in front of the store –a nice, parking spot that may as well have had a sign in front of it that read: “Reserved for Leslie.” I almost cried. But I took the parking space instead.

My auto-immune disease has been acting up in ridiculously hideous fashion lately. Every joint hurts and I now have Bursitis of the elbow. For God’s sake. Really? I’m only going to be 50 in January, yet I’ve been fighting this disease for over ten years. I have been really depressed about dealing with pain every day while going to work and being a good wife and mom, when all I really want to do is stay in bed with a heating pad. The meds I take compromise my immune system, so working with kids, which I love to do, is probably stupid, but I love my job, so I’m not about to let that stop me. I’m very careful to wash my hands, and stay away from boogery noses, but it’s a risk.

I go for acupuncture treatments, and see an alternative physician who recommends bottles and bottles of supplements and anti-inflammatory rice-protein shakes. I exercise and am now not only meat and dairy-free, but have also recently given up gluten to try to undo what my body is doing to me. My fingers are too swollen to accommodate my wedding ring, and other rings I like to wear.

So, now that you feel sufficiently sorry for me, let me tell you how much fun I had shopping!!

When I initially walked into the store, I looked around wondering if I would be able to put together those amazing Eileen Fisher “looks” I had recently seen in an Eileen Fisher e mail. I had even written down some of the pieces in the outfits to try to see if my Target wardrobe contained anything close to any of them. I realized I had purchased a cardigan here, and a skirt there that would easily fit into the Eileen Fisher look I wanted to achieve. I also knew that if I went into the store, I would probably only be able to afford one or two items from the sale rack, but that was then, and this was now.

I literally felt my breath taken away as I touched a cashmere sweater that was beyond light and soft. And, as I continued to stroll through the store, I began to touch everything. When I started stroking a leather boot, I realized I had better snap out of it and begin to pick out a few things to try on before the sales clerks deemed me a stray walk-in who needed to be escorted out of the area. Oh, and did I mention that I hardly ever buy leather? It’s a personal choice that has nothing to do with not eating meat. I can’t digest meat, but I don’t usually buy anything made of leather if I can avoid it because I think there are more humane alternatives. But cows be damned. The right boot, that I was still unknowingly clutching, was going to be mine. And so was the left one.

A little black dress with an adorable bow placed cleverly right beneath the boobage area beckoned me closer. I found my size and slipped the hanger over my finger. There it was in silver, too. And, there were matching coats for the dresses. I chose one in each color. Did I mention they had my size? I can never find my size. Most stores in our town of skinny women don’t carry anything above a size 10. I remember walking through town once with my friend Rosa. We had been in and out of clothing shops that offered nothing we could get our behinds into, when she did the funniest thing I’ve ever seen someone do. We walked into one of the stores for teeny-tiny women who never eat or throw up after they do, and before we even touched anything on any of the racks, asked the fist clerk we saw, “What’s the biggest size you carry?” When the clerk answered, “Size 10,” Rosa said, “thank you very much. Come on Leslie, let’s get out of here. We don’t need to waste our time.” I started laughing before we got out of the little boutique. I couldn’t contain my larger than size ten laugh after that.

My Daughter’s First Boyfriend

"There’s this boy in my class named David,” my daughter Veronica, who was five years old at the time, said one day while I was peeling potatoes.

“Oh?” I said.


“He kissed me.”


“Oh?” I said, putting down the vegetable peeler, this time paying a monumental amount of attention. “And, what did you do when he kissed you?” I asked.


“I kissed him back,” she declared.


“Oh,” I said, trying not to laugh, act shocked, or faint.


“I want to tell Dad about it,” she said, as she picked up the phone and began dialing his number at work. I wasn’t sure how he’d take it, and had wanted to at least brace him and tell him not to overreact before she told him about her first kiss, but she beat me to the phone.


I don’t really know what he was saying on his end, but I kind of got the gist of it from what she was saying on hers.


“But, Dad,” she said. “What do you mean you want to meet him?” she said loudly.


A very long minute passed during which her face became a very big, long scowl. Then, she let him have it. “Look, Dad,” she began, “It’s my life. I’m a girl and it’s my job to kiss him back. You’re being selfish. Good-bye!” With that, she briskly hung up the phone and went to play with the Barbies in her room.


I called Richard. “Nice going,” I said. “I’m so glad you stayed calm.”


“Look,” he said. “All I said is that I’d like to meet this David before she goes and kisses him again.”


“Richard,” I began, “may I remind you that she is only five years old? If you make a big deal out of this, she’ll never want to tell us anything.”


“I don’t like this,” he said. “I don’t like it at all.”


A few days later, after “the kiss” had pretty much blown over, the phone rang during dinner. I answered it.


“Hello,” a small voice said. “This is David. Is Veronica there?”


“It’s for you,” I told Veronica. “It’s David.”

Lucas, our one-year old, was spreading strained peas on his cheeks.


Richard dropped his napkin and fork on the floor, bumping his head on the table as he sat back up after retrieving them.


Veronica got all girly and goofy when she heard that David was on the phone. She took the phone from me and breathlessly said, “Hi, David.” They chatted for a moment while I got an icepack out of the freezer to put on Richard’s head. She took the phone away from her mouth and asked me, “Should I go?”


“Go where?” I asked.


“To his house on Saturday.”


Since we already had family plans that night, I suggested they make it for another night. I took the phone to speak to David’s mother. She and I were happy to finally “meet,” even if it was over the phone. We talked about setting up another time for them to get together, since we’d probably be planning a wedding together in July of 2015. While we were making plans to get the kids together, Veronica offered a suggestion: “I know! How about a sleep-over?”


David’s mom heard this through the phone and we both shrieked “NO!” at the same time.


Richard fell off his chair.

Lucas, sputtering strained beets, said, "dadada," and then giggled.


A few days later, David called again. Richard never comes home early from work, but, as luck would have it, he always managed to be home when David called.


I called Veronica to the phone to talk to David. She got all girly and goofy again, took the phone and sprawled herself out on the sofa like a pint-sized Cleopatra. “Hi, David,” she sang coyly into the phone.


After she was through with her phone call, she rolled around on the sofa and then kissed the phone.


Enter Richard.


“So, David called again,” he began, trying to stay cool.


“Uh-huh,” she said.


“What did he have to say? Exactly.”


“I forgot,” she said.


“No, really? What did he say?”


“How was your day at work, Dad?” she asked.


Score one for the five-year-old.


Over the next few days, all Veronica did was talk about David. She drew pictures of David, and talked about how much she loved him and how they were going to get married one day.


But, then, a few days went by and there was no talk of David. I had to investigate.


“So, Honey,” I began, “how’s David?” I wanted it to sound like I was just making conversation; not as if I were on a recon mission.


“Fine,” she said. “But he likes Alyssa, now.”


“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, totally empathizing with the feeling of being dumped. “I know how bad you must feel right now, but there are lots of other boys in your class, and ‘Mr. Right’ will come along soon.”


“It’s okay, Mom,” she said.


I was impressed by her stoicism.


Then she said, “He’ll be back.”


“What do you mean?” I asked.


“Just that. He’ll get tired of Alyssa and come back to me. Don’t worry, Mom.”


I looked in the dictionary and her picture was right next to the definition of the word “moxie.”


But, she was right. A few days later, David was back on the phone, calling our house again. Again, Richard was home. I began to think that if I wanted Richard home, all I had to do was arrange to have David call.


Richard approached Veronica later that night. “So, Honey, how’s David?”


“Dad!” she said annoyed.


“Look,” he began, “I’m just asking. How are you two getting along?”


“Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes.


“Not getting anywhere, are you?” I whispered into his ear as I walked past him in the hallway. “What’s your problem, anyway?”


He didn’t answer, but I finally figured it out. He was afraid she’d end up with someone just like him—a charmer—the kind of guy your parents trusted; the morons.


It all came rushing back to me. When we were dating, one night after seeing a movie, Richard asked me if my parents were still out of town.


“Yes,” I said. “Why?”


“Let’s go back to your house.”


“Excuse me?” I said in disbelief. “I thought we were going to get ice cream after the movie.” I was not about to give up dessert. (This was before I realized I was lactose intolerant.)


“Listen,” he began, (and I am not making this up. You can ask him. I remember this as if it were yesterday and I never let him forget it.) “I am a healthy, red-blooded American male, and I have my needs.”


See, Mom? I told you he wasn’t the angel you thought he was.


We went out for ice cream.


I was sure that Richard was afraid that his only daughter would be dealt a line like that someday from David, or some other “healthy, red-blooded American male.” And, while I thought about that, too, I figured we had a lot of time to worry about it.


I managed to explain to Richard that when healthy red-blooded American five-year-olds came over to play with our daughter, they watched Nickelodeon, or played Chinese checkers. They weren’t diabolical demons. Not yet, anyway.


As Veronica has gotten older, I’ve been keeping my eye on David, and other suitors she’s had, and I’ve been able to teach her about red flags and warning signs given off by the “charming,” “polite,” and “trustworthy” types. They may seem innocent, but they’re always the ones who will ask her if her parents are still out of town.