If Life Is a Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing in the Pits? (4 page)

“Take messages. Don't use toilet in utility room. It bubbles. If you have questions, call me. Tell them you are one of the nurses if they ask.”

When she arrived home, the door was marked with lamb's blood and there was a large quarantine sign tacked on it. The sitter had fled.

You have only to work once in your life to know that “Today's Woman on the Go” is pure fiction. Maybe they got the captions under the pictures switched. Maybe she wore the long flowing pajamas at work and the hard hat at home. Heaven knows, home is a Hard Hat area.

Where were the pictures showing her racing around the kitchen in a pair of bedroom slippers, trying to quick-thaw a chop under each armpit and yelling like a shrew, “All right, you guys, I know you're in the house. I can hear your stomachs growling.”

According to the article, all you needed was a worksheet, with everyone in the family having his or her own responsibility, leaving Mother time not only to hold down a full-time job, but to paint, sew her own coats, ride horses, and run for the U.S. Senate.

It wasn't like that at all. I called home one evening and said, “Let me speak to your father.”

“He's at the dentist,” said my son. “He chipped his tooth this morning on the frozen bread.”

“So who was on the worksheet to defrost the bread?”

“I was, but I forgot my key, got locked out and stayed all night with Mike. The milkman got locked out too. There are twelve half-gallons of milk in the garage.”

“Where's your sister?”

“I made her bed with her in it. She's not speaking. There are wet clothes in the washer and they're covered with a brown rash. We're defrosting the spareribs under your hair dryer. Guess who forgot to put the dog out when he came home? When are you coming home?”

“I'll be home tomorrow. Do you miss me?”

“No, but according to the worksheet, you're on for dishes.”

Sharing responsibility is what the entire movement to free women is all about. If women are ever to be appreciated, a husband should drive a car pool... just once.

Transporting children is my husband's twenty-sixth favorite thing. It comes somewhere between eating lunch in a tea room and dropping a bowling ball on his foot.

“Remember,” I warned him before his first attempt, “they are small children... not mail sacks. That means you have to bring the car to a complete stop and open the door for them. Don't shout and be sure to give all six of them their own window. Good luck.”

An hour-and-a-half later as he staggered through the door I said,

“So, what took you so long?”

“To begin with, old paste breath didn't want to get into the car. He said his mother didn't want him to ride with strangers. Then the name tag that was pinned to whatshemame s dress fell off and she didn't know who she was. Debbie cried for three blocks because she left her Bionic Woman lunchbox on the swings. Cecil... I guess that's his name... the one who sits there and rebuttons his sweater all the time trying to make it come out even...”

“That's Cecil.”

“He told me he lived at the Dairy Queen.”

“So what took you so long?”

"Michael. Michael is the one who took me so long. He said he didn't know where he lived, so to make friends, I gave him a taffy sucker. I must have driven around in circles for thirty minutes before he said, 'That's my house.'

“Michael,” I said, “we've passed this house twenty to thirty times. Why didn't you say something before?”

“Because,” he said, “I'm not allowed to talk with food in my mouth.”

There are some who say giving children responsibility makes them grow. There are others who contend it increases your insurance rates.

Whatever, there are some ground rules that must prevail while a mother is employed outside the home. First, when to bug and when not to bug. In other words, when do you call Mom on the phone at work?

Emergencies do arise. There's no doubt about that, but some guidelines must be established at the top of the page.

Before a child calls his mother at work he must ask himself: (1) Will Mom drop dead when she hears this? (2) Can she find a plumber after five? (3) Will she carry out her threat to move to another city and change her name?

If the answers are “Yes, No, Yes,” the child might try putting the incident in a proper perspective.

For example, if there is blood to report, consider these questions. Is it his? His brother's? Is there a lot? A little? On the sofa that is not Scotch-guarded? Or the eighty-dollar one that they are still making payments on? Will the bleeding stop? Was it an accident? A loose baby tooth? Can he shut up about it and pass it off as an insect bite?

Another example: When every other kid in the neighborhood decides your child's house would be a neat place to play because there is no adult at home, he should ask himself, "Do I want to spend my entire puberty locked in my room with no food and no television? Do I need the friendship of a boy who throws ice cubes at the bird? Will Mom notice we made confetti in her blender?

Other situations to be definite about:

When a group of children decide to wash the cat and put him in the dryer and want to know what setting to use... CALL.

When he and his brother are hitting and slapping over the last soft drink and he wants a high level decision on who gets it. DON'T CALL.

When a couple of men in a pickup truck tell him his Mom is having the TV slipcovered, the silverware stored, her jewelry cleaned and his ten-speed bicycle oiled, CALL... AND FAST.

When his sister chases him into the house with the garden hose and the furniture is turning a funny looking white, RUN.

When he is bored and has nothing to do and just wants to talk, CALL HIS FATHER.

During the summer months when children are too old for a sitter and too young for sense, I find that a Primer for Imaginative Children is a must just to set down what you expect of them.

Primer for Imaginative Children

This is a house.

Vehicles are not permitted in the house.

Occupancy of this house by more than two hundred people is dangerous and unlawful. Violators will be prosecuted.

There is a dog in the house. His name is Spot. Spot likes to run and play and chase sticks. He also likes to relieve himself with some regularity. Watch Spot for telltale signs of urgency, such as jumping higher than the ceiling, gnawing on the doorknob or tunneling under the door.

It is fun to eat. See the milk? See the butter? See the lunch meat? They cannot run. They cannot walk. They have no legs. They must be picked up and returned to the refrigerator or they will turn green. Green is not a happy color.

Hear the phone ring? That means someone wants to talk to you. Ring. Ring. Ring. When the phone rings, pick it up and speak directly into it. Say “Hello.” Say “Goodbye.” Say anything.

A bedroom is a special place. Find your bed each day. Try. Sometimes, you cannot see your bed because it is covered with clutter. This is not healthy. A cluttered room is a messy room. Fish die in a messy room. Mothers cannot breathe in a messy room. A messy room is unfit for humans. Many people in this house are human.

A bathroom is your friend. It is there when you need it. Lids do not like to be standing all the time. They get tired. Towels do not like to be on the floor. They cannot see anything. Ugh. Soap does not like to lie in a drain and melt. Boo.

See Mommy come home. See Daddy come home. They are walking on their knees. Be kind to Mommy and Daddy. “Look, look, Mommy, Bruce is bloody. I'm telling, Debbie. I didn't do it, Daddy.”

Do you want to make Mommy crazy?

Do you want to make Daddy rupture a neck vein?

Then shape up, up, up.

The controversy of whether to work outside the home or not to work outside the home goes on. Each woman in her own way assesses what her needs are, and how they can best be met.

It must be pointed out that office procedure also has its shortcomings. Nothing is perfect. ('or example, one office had the following SICK LEAVE POLICY.

SICKNESS

No excuse. We will no longer accept your doctor's statement as proof, as we believe if you are able to go to the doctor, you are able to come to work.

DEATH (other than your own)

This is no excuse. There is nothing you can do for them and we are sure that someone else in a lesser position can attend to arrangements. However, if the funeral can be arranged in the late afternoon, we will be glad to let you off one hour early, provided your share of work is ahead enough to keep the job going in your absence.

DEATH (your own)

This is acceptable as an excuse provided (a) two weeks' notice is given in order to break in a new person for your job (b) if two weeks' notice is not possible, call in before 8 a.m. so that a sub may be provided and (c) this must be verified by your doctor's signature and your own. Both signatures must be present, or the time will be deducted from your annual sick leave.

LEAVE OF ABSENCE (for an operation)

We are no longer allowing this practice. We wish to discourage any thought you may have about needing an operation. We believe that as long as you are employed here, you will need all of whatever you have and should not consider having anything removed. We hired you as you are, and to have anything removed would certainly make you less than we bargained for.

LEAVE OF ABSENCE (rest room)

Too much time is being spent in the rest rooms. Our time study man has ascertained that three minutes, fifteen seconds constitutes a generous break. In the future, we will follow the practice of going to the rest room in alphabetical order. Those with names beginning with A will go from 8 a.m. to 8:05, 15 seconds; those with F from 8:03, 15 seconds to 8:06, 30 seconds, etc. If you miss your turn, you must wait until the day when your turn comes again.

As I was on my knees one afternoon at the office, trying to lift a filing cabinet over a piece of carpet, my boss asked, “What are you doing down there?”

“Prolonging my life. I just read a survey where it said women who worked outside the home lived a richer, fuller, longer life.”

“You look tired to me,” he said. “Why don't you get out of the office for a while. Go home, bake a little bread, wax the floors, visit with your children.”

Between keeping house and working, I'm probably going to live to be a hundred. Or maybe it will just seem that long.

4

The Varicose Open

Well, if I had known the battle of the sexes was going to be fought on a tennis court, I wouldn't have let my knees grow together.

Looking back, it all started when Bobby Riggs became Queen of the Courts (grass, clay, and Margaret). Businessmen, housewives, students, blue-collar workers, politicians, preschoolers, everyone was “into tennis.”

Heaven help you if you were new to the game. It was an uphill battle to break through the barriers of snobbery and elitism to play a game that for years had been dominated by rich kids with weak chins and straight, white teeth.

That sounds biased, but did you ever see a picture of Rockefeller coming out of a bowling alley with his gym bag, or a Kennedy tinkering with his engine just before his stock car race? On the coldest day in the midwest you could always pick up a newspaper and see one of them with a white sweater knotted around his neck, shading his eyes from the blazing sun.

As a nuevo tennis player, I felt like Belle Watling (the madam in Gone with the Wind who tried to buy respectability by giving money to a hospital). The question was could a woman plagued by varicose veins find happiness with a tennis player who was attached to his mother by an umbilical sweatband?

My first day out was a disaster. I encountered a member of the First Family of tennis who appraised me coolly.

“White is tacky,” she, sniffed. “Everyone but everyone who plays tennis these days dresses in colors. Tell me, who is your pro?”

“I've been getting a little help with my strokes from Leroy Ace.”

She frowned, “I don't believe I've heard of him. What club?”

"The boy's club. But he moonlights from his garage."

“How well do you play?” she asked before going to the other side of the net.

“I had tennis elbow twice last week.”

“That only means something is wrong with your stroke. You need help. Do you prefer string or gut?”

“I'll play with anybody,” I shrugged.

“Would you like to warm up?”

“Sure,” I popped a ball over the fence. “Would you believe I've only been playing for two days?”

“That long?” she said tiredly.

“What about you?” I asked.

“I played in the good old days,” she said slowly, “before they opened up the courts to Democrats.”

I didn't care what she said. I knew that, somehow, in this lumpy little body that tripped over lint in the carpet was a Chrissie Evert just fighting to get out.

It was just a matter of time before I developed a form, learned how to get my racket out of the press, and didn't require oxygen after each serve.

But first, I knew I would never be taken seriously as a tennis player until I learned how to pick up the ball. I summoned my son.

Now, there are few things in this world more satisfying than having your son teach you how to play tennis. One is having a semitruck run over your foot.

It's almost as if he is paying you back for letting him fall off the dryer when he was a baby... for putting him to bed on his fifth birthday when he threw ice cream into the fan... for bailing out of the car when you were teaching him how to drive. All the hostilities come out the moment you walk onto the court together.

“Okay, we're going to continue today with our instruction on how to pick up the ball.”

“I know how to pick up the ball,” I said.

"I've told you before; we do not pick up the ball like a gorilla going for a banana. There is a professional way and there are several approaches. You can learn with the western forehand grip. Lean over gently and tap the ball with your racket until it bounces."

Several minutes later as I was on my knees pounding the racket into the yellow optic, he leaned over and said, “It's not a snake you are beating to death. It is a tennis ball. Let's try the ball- against-the-foot method.”