Webster's for women

A friend of mine remarked that his wife was going out for a while and posed the question: "How do women measure whiles?" I found it such a good question that I pondered it myself and realized we women do have a vocabulary of our own. And while I may be branded as a traitor, I decided to fill the men in our lives in on a few of our terms.

A little while -- Depends on the context. For example, if a woman asks, "In a little while, can you take out the garbage?" it means "right now." If she says, "I'm going shopping, I'll be back in a little while," then it means you'd better plan to make yourself dinner.

In a minute -- For example, if her child asked to play with playdough, and she says in a minute, that means never.

Someday -- If your wife says someday she wants a new kitchen and you say OK, then you'd better stock up on paper plates because she'll have it under construction by the following Monday. If, on the other hand, she says someday she'd like to get up at five and start going on family runs, don't worry, you won't be losing any sleep any time soon.

I guess I'm confused -- This is a Southern lady's way of saying, "I am right, and you know it, and I'm letting you know I know it -- in a polite way."

Maybe I'm wrong -- This means, "I am right, but I'm going to let you think you are."

I don't want anything for ____ (fill in the blank holiday) means, I want something for ________(fill in the blank holiday), and if you don't get me anything, I'll be mad.

"Don't let me eat any more chocolate" -- This does not mean you should comment when you hear the wrappers rattling in the kitchen pantry. In fact, this basically means that "when I want chocolate, stay out of my way." And, better yet, "Buy me more chocolate."

Bless her heart -- This phrase means I like her, but I'm about to talk about her anyway.

I want this recipe -- This means "These are delicious! No way are they from scratch."

I can't remember where I bought these shoes -- If she is speaking to a woman, it means "I got them at Payless, but I want you to think they are expensive." If she is talking to her husband, it usually means they are expensive, but she wants him to think they are cheap. She may also be saying, "You are a man. Since when do you notice my shoes?"

Book club -- A sophisticated name for drinking wine, eating appetizers and getting out of the house, so we can hang out with other women. And, yeah, reading a few books.

Girls' Night Out -- That means "a mental health night." Don't complain about her going, and you might get a good night kiss.

The smoking shoe

"I smell a column," a friend said, as I frantically tried to put out my smoldering shoe.

Yes, you read that correctly. Just when I was wondering what to write about next, lo and behold, my shoe catches on fire.

It started right about the time my son ran out of the woods and said he'd been shot. Granted, it was by a paintball gun, but I was still concerned. Although since he's now an experienced player (this was his third time), I obviously wasn't concerned enough to put my feet down from the fire ring I had them propped on.

I did, however, turn and listen intently to when, where, how and, more importantly, who shot him. You see, I do keep a list. I know it's just a game, but I'm still his mama, and one day I may just give in to his pleas to join him. And when I do, revenge will be sweet. But for now, I'm gathering intelligence.

I looked in horror as he showed me his wounds - right hip and funny bone, a blow that made his arm shake, he said. I was in the midst of chastising him for not putting on more padding like I told him to when I smelled it -- burning rubber.

He was saved by the smell.

"My shoe's on fire!" I shouted, jumping up and yanking it off my foot, to the amusement of those around me. "Honey, do something!"

"It's fine. It's not on fire," my husband said, nonplussed.

"Yes, it is! It's smoking!"

"Try rubbing it in the dirt," my friend said, helpfully.

I rubbed and rubbed, and in the middle of this chaos, my son -- ever the opportunist - got right in my face and asked, "Can I get a Coke?"

"Sure, sure, whatever you want. My shoe is burning!"

"No, it's not," my husband said, which made me want to prove that it was even if I had to throw it in the fire. Instead, I grabbed a nearby bottle of water and poured it on the sole of my shoe.

"Listen to it sizzling!" I said, watching smoke rise as the fire was slowly extinguished.

"I guess it was on fire," he said. "You're right."

Actually, I made up the last part, but that's how I heard it in my head. It was then that I had a major female dilemma. Do I mourn the loss of one of my favorite tennis shoes or bask in the glory of being right? I'll let you guess which one I decided to do. I'll give you a hint: my toes may have been toasty, but there was a great big smile on my face.

Moms' mysteries of life

I watched a movie during the weekend about a man who pops a pill and suddenly everything is clear to him. Life is no longer a mystery. He understands the stock market, politics and the actions he must take. Must be nice. It made me think, "What would it be it like to uncover the great mysteries that moms face every day?"

Here are some of the things that plague me on a daily basis:

Why is it that every time I close the bathroom door, someone calls my name?

And why is it when I yell to tell them where I am, they repeat it to the person who's calling on the phone?

Why is it that "Nobody" does so much mischief around the house? He tracks in mud, puts back empty cartons and leaves a mess on the floor. I'm sure "Nobody" knows the answer to this one.

What is it about bedtime on Sunday nights that makes kids remember they have a project the next day?

Furthermore, why is it that they can't remember their projects, but they can remember the exact price I paid for my purse and then they repeat it when their dad is in earshot?

Why is it that I have to ask them how to operate my phone, and the Wii, and the DVD?

Why is it kids can beg for a pet for 10 years and then forget about it in 10 minutes?

What do house plants have against me?

Why is it that coupons expire the day before I try to use them?

Why do kids tiptoe past Daddy in order to wake Mommy up?

Speaking of Daddy, why does his cooking always taste better?

And, why doesn't the fire alarm go off when he's doing the cooking?

Why don't kids mention when something's leaking?

Why is it that every sporting event is called by a different name, i.e., meet, match, game, etc.?

And, why does everybody laugh when I get it wrong?

Why do my kids always win gold fish at the fair?

Why are all my doorknobs used as hangers?

How is it that they get older, but their dad and I don't?

Why is it they don't believe us when we say as soon as they are grown, we're going to buy an RV and take turns parking in their driveways?

Why is it that as soon as you buy a case of their favorite food at the wholesale store they stop eating it?

Why is it they are smart enough to make all A's but can't operate a single appliance?

Where does all the Scotch tape go?

How did my pool table get transformed into a Lego table?

Why is it they want me to hold everything while their hands are empty and mine are full?

And, why is it that I do it?

Finally, the last question is a doozie.

Why is it that in a blink of an eye they are gone?

What DID you talk about?

I was at a party the other weekend, and the women were gathered in the kitchen, as we tend to do, sharing everything from the crab dip recipe, to concerns about our children's education, to hopes and desires for the future.

During a slight pause in the conversation, we looked out at the patio where the men folk were gathered around the fire.

"I wonder what they are talking about?" one of the ladies asked.

You can bet it was none of the above. Now, am I saying that men don't talk about their hopes, their dreams and their concerns about the future? No, but they certainly don't talk about them with each other. In fact, it's sometimes hard to determine exactly what men do talk about when they are together. I secretly think it's why sports was invented.

Women, on the other hand, are far different creatures. Within a matter of minutes, we know intimate details of each other's lives.

Ironically, though men say less, they seem to remain friends longer. Don't believe me, ladies? Quit talking to your girlfriend for a week and see what happens.

You can bet she'll be at home going, "I don't know what's wrong with so and so. I think she's mad at me. She hasn't called me in a week. How dare she be mad at me after all I've done for her? Just wait until the next time she calls me to babysit ..."

You get the idea.

Men, however, can go decades without speaking to each other and then pick up the phone and go back to insulting each other and talking about sports like they never missed a beat. I've hung around waiting for my husband to get off such a phone call before. As soon as he hangs up, I ask, "Well, what did he say?"

"Not much. He's doing good."

"But what about his wife? How is she? Did he say anything about her?"

"No, didn't mention her."

"Well, what about the kids? Has their son graduated? Did their daughter get married?"

"He didn't mention it."

And, then comes the question all men dread hearing.

"Well, what DID you talk about?"

We had dinner with some friends - Jerry and Barbara - the other night, and they told the story of how they had received a Christmas card from a co-worker and his family. The card showed the couple posed with their 5-year-old son and a newborn baby.

"Jerry, you didn't tell me that they had a baby!"

"That can't be their baby. I've talked to Kurt almost every day, and he never mentioned anything about a baby," Jerry protested. "That must be the neighbor's baby."

"Jerry, why would they send out a Christmas card with the neighbor's baby?"

"Then they must have adopted a baby."

Barbara scrutinized the photo and said, "This baby looks just like everybody in the photo!"

Then she asked yet another dreaded question, "Did you FORGET to tell me they had a baby?"

"No, Kurt didn't tell me. I think they must be trying to hide the baby!" Jerry said in desperation.
Wasn't long before the conversation got back to the couple with the baby.

The wife's reaction?

"Kurt, you mean you never mentioned to them that I was pregnant? What DID you talk about?"

Forever Lazy

As I write, the temperature outside is 27 degrees, and my son is mourning the fact that he is "left out in the cold."

No need to call DFACs; he's bundled up in his camouflage Snuggie -- last year's hottest "As seen on TV" item. As cozy as it may be, he calls it a "poor imitation of the Forever Lazy."

If you haven't heard of the Forever Lazy, then pat yourself on the back because it means you didn't watch much television over the holidays. If you have seen them, then you are probably laughing, and rightfully so. The Forever Lazy looks like footie pajamas with a hood, which make its wearers look something like a giant Teletubbie. My daughter, husband and I all got them for Christmas.

It was meant to be a joke after we watched the actors on the commercial frolic outside in their warm Forever Lazys. Yes, folks, they aren't just meant for the couch. The commercial even shows how "you'll be the talk of tailgate party" in your Forever Lazy. You can say that again! While Snuggies have an open back -- similar to a hospital gown --Forever Lazy has a zipped flap in the back, very convenient for "when duty calls," said the commercial.

Also very lazy.

"That is one step away from the nursing home!" I said to my husband.

Famous last words.

The next thing we know, the three of us are all zipped up and marveling at how warm and convenient they are. Well, all except my poor son. Fortunately for the rest of the world, we aren't ready to show up at the next high school football game or run down the middle of town in them. But, you just never know.

Last spring, my husband and I went to a Jimmy Buffett concert. It was an unseasonably cold March day. I guess I could have dressed appropriately for the weather, but did I mention it was a Jimmy Buffett concert?

I was freezing, so my husband passed me what I thought was a blanket and, without thinking, I tucked my arms into it, thankful for its warmth, when I heard a 20-something guy exclaim behind me, "Is that a Snuggie?"

Yep, I have worn a Snuggie at a concert. At first, I was mortified, but then realized there was something rather freeing about it. So, even though we laugh at the Forever Lazy, I realize it's only a matter of time before I'm tailgating in one.

In the meantime, perhaps I'll use my Bedazzler to make it sparkle, my Thigh-Master, so I'll look good in it, the Ped Egg for my pre-concert pedicure and my Ove-Glove to help cook the tailgate snacks.

Last year at the Buffett concert, I decided it was a good idea to karaoke in front of the camera. This year, I know I'm better off wearing my "As seen on TV" products than being one. And, if that makes me forever lazy, then so be it!

Christmas, the most wonderful time of the year - or not

I want to love Christmas. I want it to be like the commercials where everything is decorated beautifully, the gifts are wrapped perfectly and everyone, down to the lowliest mouse, gets along. But the reality is that's not the way the world is.

In fact, even when Jesus was born, conditions were rough. Mary was tired and, as Imogene Herdman from the book "The Great Christmas Pageant Ever" would say, pregnant. No, not great with child, but pregnant. They were dirty and had no place to sleep, and even after their child, our child, was born, things were not perfect. Apart from their smelly, dirty surroundings, there was an even worse threat facing the newborn baby -- Herod.

Today, I think we face our own threats during this time of year, and one is (no surprise here) commercialism. I spent two hours at the local big box store earlier this week and came out with $500 worth of items and disgust for the human race. I often feel guilty for not being happier this time of year, but when I witness the worst of mankind while shopping for Christmas gifts, it makes me think, "This is not what Jesus had in mind."

Christmas is filled with pressure, pressure to find the perfect gift, pressure to buy, buy, buy, and, worst of all, the pressure to be happy. In the meantime, the world doesn't change or adjust itself for the season; it keeps turning. Loved ones still die, friends still get sick, money still runs short and our jobs are just as demanding. It's enough to make one run away to Bermuda, or, at least, dream of it.

We've had many ups and downs through the years at Christmas. Ironically, it's the less-than-perfect ones that stand out. I can remember as a child my dad cutting down a tree in the middle of my grandmother's pasture, while a nearby bull pawed the ground and eyed the back of his Levis. My sister and I warned him just as the bull charged, and the tree fell. Daddy managed to sling it into the back of the truck in the nick of time. That's a good memory, though Dad may tell you differently.

This year has been a tough one. My mother-in-law passed away suddenly after a brief illness. When I recently told someone that she died, he whispered, "Did you get along with your mother-in-law?" I couldn't help but laugh. I know they have a bad reputation, but that wasn't the case with mine. She was my staunch supporter, and I can honestly say I was her favorite daughter-in-law. I'm sure my two sister-in-laws will agree.

My mother-in-law was ahead of her time in a lot of ways. One was she had a knack for predicting what would be the hot new Christmas item and buying them in June, from Beanie babies to Nano pets. We always laughed and teased her until December rolled around and then we thanked her for her foresight.

This year, she's gone. She's now in heaven with my father-in-law, my husband's great aunt and some good friends of theirs. I imagine they are enjoying themselves, and she is getting the last laugh as I run around trying to find the latest hot item for the kids. It sure would have been a lot easier if she were here. She was always a fan of solar lights, and I heard today there is such a thing as solar-lighted Christmas wreaths. I think I will buy one in her honor and, instead of getting sucked into the rush, sit back and remember the reason for the season.

Surviving the drive-thru

What do two very active kids plus two very busy working parents equal? The answer: Drive-thrus.

Despite the $200 worth of meat that I purchased recently at the wholesale food store, I inevitably find myself waiting in the drive-thru line. Why I think that's easier than cooking a pot roast, I do not know. The truth is, drive-thrus are a pain and have been since the beginning.

Yes, I remember some of our area's first drive-thru restaurants. One was a Wendy's, which later transformed into an Italian restaurant and is now a Mexican restaurant. But, back in the "Where's the Beef?" hey day, we spent a lot of time in that drive-thru. My mother never had any trouble placing our order into the loud speaker, but, for some reason, doing so made my dad break out into a cold sweat.

"I can't do it. You'll have to do it," he'd say to my mom if he were in the driver's seat. She'd lean over and yell our order, which the clerk would repeat back to her -- incorrectly. Times haven't really changed much. I can remember the one and only time my dad placed his own order. Perhaps mom was sick. I don't know. I just recall her giving him a list, and my sister and I riding to the restaurant with him.

He leaned out the window, pulled out his list and cleared his throat.

"Dog food," he said loudly. My sister and I began to giggle. "Milk, bread ..."

"Daddy, I think that's Mama's grocery list. Turn it over," my sister offered.

The other problem with drive-thrus is you feel so rushed, especially when my husband is ordering. He prefers it if we all order a number, so I try to comply.

"We'll take two number threes with Cokes to drink," he said hurriedly.

"Do you want honey mustard or barbeque sauce with that?" asked the voice through the loud speaker.

"What kind of sauce? What kind of sauce?" my husband said frantically, snapping his fingers.

"I don't want any sauce," I said.

"Just pick a sauce!" he yelled.

"What kind of sauce did you say, sir?" said the voice.

"But I don't want sauce!"

"Pick a sauce; don't confuse her!"

By this time I could have made that pot roast.

Of course, I don't blame him. Even though I know there's a real person back there, the voice seems so impersonal -- and inflexible when it comes to special orders. I pulled through a drive-thru over the weekend. It was the type in which there are two lanes to expedite ordering. The problem was the two lanes had to merge. Anyone who's ever driven on a highway knows that even on the best day, the human race stinks at merging. So, expecting hungry tired people with screaming children in the back seat to politely merge is a ridiculous idea.

At this particular restaurant, I ordered a medium milkshake and was told that they only had small or large.

"OK, we'll take the large."

"The large comes in a medium cup. Do you still want a large?"

"Why not?" I said, and then my children and I had a good laugh.

Though they say families who eat at the dinner table together, stay together, I say the families who survive drive-thrus together stay together. As long as you order the sauce.