If Life Is a Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing in the Pits?

If Life Is

A Bowl Of Cherries

What Am I Doing

In The Pits?

by Erma Bombeck

McGRAW-HILL BOOK COMPANY

Copyright © 1971, 1972, 1973, 1974, 1975, 1976, 1977, 1978 by Erma Bombeck. All rights reserved.

For my editor, Gladys Carr, who has the courage to laugh only when it's funny.

To my agent, Aaron Priest, who gives 100 percent, but takes only 10 percent.

For my Mom and Dad, (Albert and Erma Harris), who tell everyone their daughter is a successful dental assistant.

Introduction

A Pair of White Socks in a Pantyhose World

I've always worried a lot and frankly I'm good at it.

I worry about introducing people and going blank when I get to my mother. I worry about a shortage of ball bearings; a snake coming up through my kitchen drain. I worry about the world ending at midnight and getting stuck with three hours on a twenty-four-hour cold capsule.

I worry about getting into the Guinness World Book of Records under “Pregnancy: Oldest Recorded Birth.” I worry what the dog thinks when he sees me coming out of the shower, that one of my children will marry an Eskimo who will set me adrift on an iceberg when I can no longer feed myself. I worry about salesladies following me into the fitting room, oil slicks, and Carol Channing going bald. I worry about scientists discovering someday that lettuce has been fattening all along.

But mostly, I worry about surviving. Keeping up with the times in a world that changes daily. Knowing what to keep and what to discard. What to accept and what to protest.

Never, in the history of this country, have worriers had such a decade as the seventies. Each year has produced a bumper crop of worrierees larger than the year before and this year promises to be even better.

Children are becoming an endangered species, energy has reached crisis proportions, marriages are on the decline, and the only ones having any fun anymore are the research rats.

You cannot help but envy their decadence.

Throughout the years, these furry swingers have been plied with booze, pot, cigarettes, birth control pills, too much sun, cyclamates, caffeine, Red Dye No. 2, saccharine, disco music at ear-shock decibels, late nights, and a steady diet of snack food.

If people haven't asked themselves these questions, they should:

How come there are still more rats than people?

How come you've never seen an iron-starved, dull, listless rat drag around the house?

Did you ever see a rat with a salad in one hand and a calorie counter in the other; yet have you ever seen a fat rat?

Have you ever yelled at a rat who couldn't hear you and couldn't outrun you?

Did you ever see a rat drop dead with lipstick on his teeth?

These unanswered questions have bothered me because every time I turn around a new research study is taking away something that has added to my pleasure in the past, but is bound to make me sick in the future.

I heard a story about a research rat recently that makes one pause and reflect. The rat's name was Lionel. He was a pro. He had everything tested on him from artificial sweeteners to bread preservatives to foot fungus viruses to brutal subway experiments and survived them all. A researcher figured he was something of a Superrat... an immortal who could sustain life no matter what the odds.

The researcher took him home as a pet for his children. Within three months, this indestructible rat was dead.

It seems that one day the rat was taken for a ride in the car with the teenage son who had a learner's permit. The rat died of a heart attack.

That's what this book is about. Surviving.

1

If You Thought the Wedding Was Bad...

Next to hot chicken soup, a tattoo of an anchor on your chest, and penicillin, I consider a honeymoon one of the most overrated events in the world.

It's one of those awkward times when you know everyone else had a better time than you did but you're too proud to admit it.

A Honeymoon Hall of Fame is being established at a resort hotel in the Poconos.

According to publicity, a heart-shaped alcove will feature photos, mementos and memorabilia of famed loving couples of history and fiction.

To date, they have included a recording of the Duke of Windsor's history-making declaration of love in which he renounced the British throne, early cartoons of Blondie and Dagwood, and film clips of Elizabeth Taylor's weddings.

It boggles the mind to imagine how they are going to determine who will enter the Honeymoon Hall of Fame and for what reasons, but here are a few nominations.

Ruth and Walter, who enjoyed the shortest honeymoon in history. Ruth shot Walter in the leg at the reception for fooling around with the maid of honor.

Sue and Ted for the most unique honeymoon in history. While Sue swam, danced, played tennis and shopped, Ted ice fished, skied, played cards and drank with the boys. While separate honeymoons don't work for everyone, it worked for Sue and Ted.

Laura and Stewart, the couple who were the greatest sports on their honeymoon. Right after the wedding, Laura discovered Stewart was out on bail for armed robbery, was coming down with three-day measles, was already married, had a son who set fires, and had taken out $75,000 worth of life insurance on her at the reception, but what the heck, as Laura explained, “Honeymoons are always a time of adjustment.”

There are a lot of theories as to why marriages aren't lasting these days. The original premise was so simple. All you had to do was promise to love and to cherish from this day forward for better or for worse... and you asked yourself how bad could it get?

Bad never reaches it to the big stuff. It's always the little things that do a marriage in.

For example, a woman can walk through the Louvre Museum in Paris and See 5,000 breathtaking paintings on the wall. A man can walk through the Louvre Museum in Paris and see 5,000 nails in the wall. That is the inherent difference.

I don't know what there is about a nail in the wall that makes strong, virile men cry. The first time I was aware of this phenomenon was a week after my husband and I were married. I passed him in the kitchen one day while carrying a small nail and hammer.

“Where are you going with that hammer and nail?” he asked, beginning to pale.

“I am going to hang up a towel rack,” I said.

He could not have looked more shocked if I had said I was going to drive a wooden peg into the heart of a vampire.

“Do you have to drive that spike into the wall to do it?”

“No,” I said resting on the sink, “I could prop the towel rack up in a corner on the floor. I could hang it around my waist from a rope, or I could do away with it altogether and keep a furry dog around the sink to dry my hands on.”

“What is there about women that they cannot stand to see a smooth, bare wall?” he grumbled.

“And what is there about men that they cannot stand to have the necessities of life hung from a wall?”

“What necessities?” he asked. “Certainly you don't need that mirror in the hallway.”

“You said that about the light switches.”

His eyes narrowed and I had the feeling he was going to zap me with his big point. “Do you realize,” he asked slowly, “that there is not one single wall in this house where we can show a home movie?”

“Radio City Music Hall only has one,” I retorted.

And so, the nail versus the bare wall has gone on for years at our house. He wouldn't hang a calendar over my desk because in twelve months the nail would become obsolete. He wouldn't hang the children's baby pictures because in two years they'd grow teeth and no one would recognize them. He wouldn't let me put a hook in the bathroom so I wouldn't have to hold my robe while I showered. He wouldn't let me hang a kitchen clock anywhere but on a wall stud (which happened to be located BEHIND the refrigerator).

Sometimes you have to wait for revenge. Yesterday, he reported he ran over a nail with his car.

There's an object lesson here, but I wouldn't insult anyone's intelligence by explaining it.

To love and to cherish from this day snore-ward... foreward. Why doesn't anyone think to ask? Snoring could be a real threat to a marriage, especially if it's a snore that blows lampshades off the base, pictures off the wall, and makes farm animals restless as far as fifty miles away.

The loudest snore, according to the Guinness World Book of Records was measured at sixty-nine decibels at St. Mary's hospital in London.

Until last night.

That's when my husband broke the record by sustaining his breathing at a rousing seventy-two decibels. Seventy-two decibels, for the innocent, is the equivalent of having a cannon go off in the seat next to you in the Astrodome.

“Hey Cyrano,” I yelled, “wake up. You're doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Snoring.”

“You woke me up to tell me that! If I've told you once I've told you a thousand times, I do not snore. I'd know it if I did.”

“That is the same logic used by the man who said, 'If I had amnesia, I would have remembered it.' ”

“What did it sound like?”

“Like the Goodyear blimp with a slow leak.”

“Well, what did you expect? A concert?”

“Maybe I'll try what Lucille Farnsward tried when her husband's snoring drove her crazy.”

“What's that?” he asked sleepily.

“She just put a pillow over his face.”

“Good Lord, woman, that would cause a man to stop breathing altogether.”

“Well, she hasn't worked the bugs out yet, but she's onto something.”

“Why don't you roll me over on my side?”

“I did and you hit me.”

And so it went, all through the night.

Frankly, I'm sick of all the therapist remedies that never seem to work, like self-hypnosis, earplugs and rolling the snorer off his back. These are the only remedies that bear consideration.

CHANGE BEDS

Get the snorer out of his own bed and into a strange one... preferably in another state.

PROLONGING SLEEP

This one works as well as any I've tried. Just as you are both climbing into bed, get every nerve in his body on alert by offhandedly mentioning, “The IRS called you today, they'll call back tomorrow.”

Some experts believe you have to get to the root of a husband's reason for snoring. It has been suggested a person snores because he is troubled, his dentures don't fit properly, he indulges in excessive smoking or drinking, has swollen tonsils or suffers from old age.

Don't you believe any of it. A man snores for one reason alone... to annoy his wife. And if that doesn't do it, he'll resort to some other ploy to drive her crazy... the Sorry-I'm-late syndrome.

There are no records to prove it, mind you, but I have every reason to believe my husband was an eleven-month baby.

And he's been running two months late ever since. Through marriage (and bad association) I have become a member of that great body of tardy Americans who grope their way down theater aisles in the dark, arrive at parties in time to drink their cocktails with their dessert, and celebrate Christmas on December 26.

Frankly, I don't know how a nice, punctual girl like me got stuck with a man who needs not a watch but a calendar and a keeper.

Would it shock anyone to know I have never seen a bride walk “down” the aisle? I have never seen a choir or a graduate in a processional? I have never seen the victim of a mystery BEFORE he was murdered. I have never seen a parking lot jammed with people. I have never seen the first race of a daily double, or a football team in clean uniforms.

The other night I had it out with my husband, “Look, I am in the prime time of my life and I have never heard the first thirty seconds of the “Minute Waltz.” Doesn't that tell you something?”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I am trying to say that once before I die I would like to see a church with empty seats.”

“We've been through all this before,” he sighed. “Sitting around before an event begins is a complete waste of time when you could be spending it sleeping, reading and working.”

“Don't forget driving around the block looking for a parking place. I don't understand you at all,” I continued. “Don't you get curious as to what they put into first acts? Aren't you just a bit envious of people who don't have to jump onto moving trains? Aren't you tired of sitting down to a forty-four-minute egg each morning?”

“I set my alarm clock every night. What do you want from me?”

“I have seen you when you set your alarm clock. When you want to get up at six-thirty you set it for five-thirty. Then you reset it for six and when it goes off you hit it again and shout, 'Ha, ha, I was only kidding. I got another half-hour.' You reset it for six-thirty at which time you throw your body on it and say, 'I don't need you. I don't need anybody.' Then you go back to sleep.”