Just released from the Slightly Off Archives. . .

Experts say, the sound you hear when someone is snoring is caused by the vibration of relaxed, floppy tissues that line the upper airway. The experts haven’t heard my husband. When he snores, the sound you hear is a space shuttle launching next to your pillow.

Although snoring is a relatively harmless activity, sometimes in can indicate a serious medical problem and become extremely dangerous for the snorer say, for instance, when the non-snoring partner pinches the snorers nose shut and refuses to let go.  Unfortunately, in severe cases like my husband’s, this has no impact whatsoever and will simply continue snoring through his mouth, which sounds kind of like a buzz saw cutting through your headboard.

Every morning, my husband notices all the pictures on the wall above his head hanging at crooked angles.  “What’s with the pictures?” he asks.

“That’s from your snoring.” I say, shaking my sleepy head.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snorts back.  “I don’t snore.”

I’m gravely concerned for my husband’s health because he refuses to believe he snores and that makes me want to hurt him.

Despite his denial, I’ve made him try all the remedies.  The nose strips worked for a while, until one night a huge snort popped the strip right off.  It whipped across the room and knocked over a lamp.  The chin strip did the same thing, or so we think.  Because the next morning we found our dog wearing it.

Thankfully, over the years, I’ve learned that if my husband turns on his left side, the snoring is diminished, if not completely absent for a full five minutes.  So as not to disturb his restful slumber, I gently nudge him over on his left side.  But no matter how careful I am, he always wakes up and says, “What am I doing on the floor?”

“Gee, I don’t know honey, you must’ve fallen out of bed,” I say quickly snuggling under the covers.

Unfortunately he climbs into bed and lays right on his back, the sleeping
position for maximum snoring, before I can even close my eyes.  This is his favorite position.  So one night I gave my husband a new t-shirt to wear to bed.

“Look, what I made at the craft store today.” I showed him the front of the shirt, it read, “Best Husband in the World.”

“That’s nice, honey,” he said yawning.

Hiding the back of the shirt from him, I said, “Here let me help you put it on.”

“The back feels weird,” he said.

“Oh, the material’s probably a bit stiff because it’s new,” I assured him.

My husband got into bed and attempted to lie on is back.  “What’s happening?” he asked while toppling over.  “I feel like I’m falling off my new t-shirt.”  He swung his arm around and found the tennis balls I had sewn onto the back of the shirt.

Just released from the Slightly Off Archives. . .

As a parent, the significant moment when your sweet, helpless baby grows into a self-reliant, mature responsible young person and first reveals his career aspiration is one you’ll never forget.

“I want to be a rapper,” my high school freshman announced while hiking up his pants.  My son spends 23 hours a day, hiking, pulling – and when he runs, holding up his pants, because of one fact that somehow seems to escape his comprehension – they are too big for him!

Now all the parenting experts tell you this is not the time to criticize your child’s career choice.  Instead, be supportive and encouraging. (Yeah, well that’s because their kids wanted to be lawyers and doctors, not wrappers!)

“So you want to be a wrapper.” I repeated back.  “Exactly what are you going to wrap?”  I asked in exasperation.  “Wrapping presents at the mall isn’t going to build you that house you always talk about with the professional-sized basketball court and 60 seat movie theatre, you know.”

“Not a wrapper, mom,” my astute teen explained. “A rapper, like Tupac and Eminem and Snoop, and Easy E.”

“I seesy E.” I said.

“I want to get down and rap about my life and my homies.”

“But most of those rappers get their inspiration from their rough and tough childhoods, right?” I reminded him.

“Right.”

“They’ve lived in dangerous neighborhoods and rap about the hardships in their world.  You’ve had a cushiony childhood compared to these guys.  What are you gonna rap about, Strife in the Suburbs?” I chuckled.

Then without warning, the chuckle became a laugh, and the laugh became a guffaw, and suddenly after all those painstaking hours of listening to annoying, rhyming, rapping sounds blasting on the car radio and booming behind the bedroom door, I lost my grip.

“What would you call yourself?” I goaded him.  “Hey, I got it.  The PBJ rapper. Get it? Peanut, butter and Jelly rapper.  Ooh that’s good. Then, I started slapping my hand against my thigh and making those weird noises with my mouth, my hands were flying all over like they do in the MTV videos.  I grabbed my vegetable brush for a microphone and before I could stop myself, I was rapping.

“This is PBJ and I’m here to tell you, there’s strife in the suburbs, it can get to you too.
Can you picture my fate?  Eatin vegetables I hate, never stayin up late.
Takin out garbage, cleanin the garage, walkin the dog,
I got so many chores my head’s in a fog.
TV in my room’s got poor reception, been beggin the pees for a cable connection
There’s no question, I be stressin.
I be moanin, groanin, Snow blowin, lawn mowin, that’s where all my precious time’s goin.
These burbs are full of strife, it’s messin with my life!
School might be cool, if there weren’t so many tests, and teachers weren’t pests, and we could rest, on our desk. Homework’s got to go, I already know what I need to know, so, keep it slow.
I got 20 inch rims on my bike, waitin for driver’s ed is some waitin I don’t like.
Me and my homies chillin at the mall, I feel like die-n when my mom starts to call, “Marcus it’s time to go!”
I’m mortified, gotta hide, she’s ruinin my reputation and causin me constipation.
I shout, spout, pout.  When I’m 18, I’m movin out., I be makin my own route, to the city, where I’ll be sittin pretty, far away from the strife in this suburban life.”
I wrapped up my rap and looked around for my son. “Marcus? Wasn’t that great? This gig isn’t so bad after all. Hey, maybe we could rap together, you know, PBJ and M-O-M. We could go on tour with the M & M’s! Marcus?”

“My son is probably cryin, but his tears he’ll soon be dryin, looking for a new career no doubt, see how it all works out!”

Just released from the Slightly Off Archives. . .

After a couple decades of marriage and three kids, it’s not every day you look at your husband with the same love and passion of that first yea r- okay, week – of marital bliss. But once in a while something happens to rekindle that spark and you find yourself falling in love all over again.

A hamster in a sump pump fanned the flame for me.  Now before you call PETA let me explain. It was an accident. No one intentionally meant to hurt Cheddar. But the way I see it, if you’ve got a hamster its days are numbered anyway.

Hamsters have an extremely short lifespan in captivity, even shorter in my house. It seems every hamster believes he or she is Clint Eastwood and its mission – to escape from Alcatraz, or in this case, a $50 Habitrail jail.  They long to break out and get as far away from their jailers -a bunch of kids who keep sticking carrots up their noses- as quickly as possible.

We knew something was up when Cheddar started clinking her dish on the wire cage to the beat of Jailhouse Rock and David Copperfield’s TV special kept mysteriously playing in the VCR.  So, we moved Cheddar to the basement. Then one day she carved a bar of soap into a look-a-like and clawed her way out of the cage into the wilds of a concrete world.  When our daughter discovered the imposter, she screamed, “Cheddar’s Loose!”

Naturally, we just sat there, because Cheddar was always loose. Our dog, Champ, always sniffed her out.  Of course, then he wanted to eat her, but we’d scream, “Drop it Champ! Drop it!” And Champ would reluctantly unclench his teeth and the terrified hamster would fall to the ground, scamper off and the game would begin all over again.
Except this time, Champ did not sniff out Cheddar, even in the darkest depths and recesses of the basement.  Our daughter came upstairs dejected.

“Where did she go?” my daughter cried.

My husband had an idea.  Something about a small opening on the lid of the sump pump.

It’s one of those times when you’re really glad you’re a woman and you’re really glad you have a man.  A real man, like John Wayne, who will walk down into the basement, without a moments hesitation, swagger over to the sump pump, take a peek inside and say, “Well, it looks like it’s all over for you little fella.”

My brave man returned, gently carrying a light bulb box.  Our eyes locked for a brief moment, before our daughter put two and two together and began to wail.

As I cradled my daughter, I looked at my husband as if I hadn’t seen him in a while.  I’m pretty sure the muscles in his arms rippled and his shirt suddenly opened to his waist.  His chest hair taunted me. All one of them. He looked as if he’d just popped off the cover of one of those romance novels, only he was mine, all mine.

If my daughter hadn’t been slobbering all over me and crying, “Cheddar! Cheddar!” I would’ve begged him to kiss me right then and there.  I wanted him to sweep me into his arms and hold me close  -after he disposed of the hamster, of course.

But it wasn’t to be.  He put the box in the garage and came back inside to comfort our daughter.

I looked at his large, strong arms as he embraced her.  I tried to shove, I mean, nudge, my daughter out of the way and kind of move into his arms, but he just looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.
We buried Cheddar in the backyard.  A grouping of white stones marks the spot where he lays.  Our daughter stares at the spot, yearning for Cheddar.  I stare at the white stones too, and then I go look for my husband.

I’m starting a romance novel.  My working title is, “The Hunk and the Hamster.”

Just released from the Slightly Off Archives. . .

It seems a recent survey has made an alarming discovery.

The results were right there in black and white in my morning newspaper.  “Poll finds strong ‘nag factor’ in children.”
After polling hundreds of Americans, the survey found (hold onto your coffee mugs,) kids nag their parents to get what they want.

Oh My Gosh! Stop the presses! Alert the media! Contact the President!

According to Officials at the Center for a New American Dream, even when parents say no, six out of ten children will keep nagging an average of ten times.

Ten times? Hey, for once my kids are above average!

Now, I’ll admit I’m not a professional pollster by trade, but isn’t the whole point in conducting a survey to learn something that we DON’T ALREADY know?!  Maybe they plan to present their findings to life forms on Mars.  Otherwise, we’re all well aware of the “nag factor.  Next thing you know they’ll present a poll on the “whine factor”.  Or the “kids watch too much TV” factor.  Better yet, how about the “everybody hates polls factor.”

To find out just how aware my children are of their nagging power, I conducted my own survey:

Me: Lauren, would you say you nag to get your way?

My daughter: (pause, looks deeply into my eyes to see if a “yes” could lead to a punishment.)

Me:  It’s okay.  You’re not going to get in trouble.  I just want to know.

My daughter: Sometimes

Me: Do you think it works?

My daughter: (pause) Sometimes

Me: Give me an Example

My daughter: (pause) Cheddar.

Me: What are you saying, that you nagged until I bought you cheese?

My daughter: No, mom, my hamster, Cheddar, remember?

MOM: That thing in the basement is a hamster?  Excuse me a minute, Lauren. Pulling my husband aside, I whispered. “You better pick up those traps in the basement.” Turning back to Lauren, I continued, “How many times did you have to nag to get Cheddar?”

LAUREN: 30

After polling my other kids along with nieces and nephews, I discovered that children are deeply aware of their nagging expertise, but extremely reluctant to share information. When questioned about it, they glance furtively around the room, fidget in their seats, and send secret messages via raised eyebrows, leg twitches and picked noses to their nagging cohorts. Which brings me to a much more significant poll, “Why do parents give in to nagging?”

I’ll tell you why!  My sister will tell you why. My friend with a hamster, gerbil and fat ferret will tell you why.

They wear us down, they beat us to the ground.  They say it over and over and over and over again, each time in a tone closer to that of a sick moose.  They wait until we’re on the phone with the IRS or in a minor traffic accident with the Pope.  They use guilt, silence, illness and big sad puppy eyes, the same exact tactics used on POWS.

To be able to say, “No,” parents must be in the same tip-top military shape it requires to fly F-16 fighter jets.  Strong, alert, tough, washboard stomach. Just like Tom Cruise in “Days of Thunder.” Yes, if my husband looked like Tom Cruise, we could stand tall, arm in arm and fight off that nagging together.  Okay, we still wouldn’t win, but my husband would look like Tom Cruise, which would definitely soften the blow.

Just released from the Slightly Off Archives. . .

Would it be forward of me to say that the single most frequently used word in the history of the internet must be “forward”?  Before I was hip to all the ways a forwarded, forward could be forwarded and forwarded and forwarded again and again and again, I’d see a friend’s name in the “From” line of an e-mail and eagerly click on “open” in anticipation of a quick note or a friendly howdy do.  But instead, I was greeted by a forward, forwarded 22 times.  A forward that my dear, close friend had sent to me and 200 other dear, close friends at the exact same time.  No matter how heartfelt when she hit the forward button, somehow it diminished the message.

I know in our busy lives, it’s an easier form of communication.  A ½ second sent forward is certainly more economical both time and money-wise, than a ½ hour phone call, or even a two-minute personally written e-mail.  Above all it keeps people from really replying when you ask, “How are you?”

It seems we’re becoming more and more comfortable with a false sense of connection.  It’s as if we’re saying, “I won’t make the time to talk to you, but I hope this forward makes you feel as if I did.”

Never before has correspondence between two people been almost entirely written by a third party.  And even more upsetting to a writer, most times the third party is never given a by-line!

Besides the impersonal connection, there’s more that concerns me.  With so many witty, pre-written jokes, life lessons, rules of the road, words of wisdom and profound inspirational stories at our fingertips, will we have the means or motivation come up with an original thought ever again?

From a writer’s perspective, oftentimes I feel everything that can be said or written about, has already been written – and forwarded to me!  And yet, it is the writer in me compelled to read every one of them.

Had I pushed the delete key, I would’ve missed some of these memorable mottoes, such as:
“It may be that your sole purpose in life is simply to serve as a warning to others.” Or “Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach him how to fish, and he will sit in a boat and drink beer all day.”
Or other clever witticisms like:
“I’ve learned that you cannot make someone love you.  All you can do is stalk them and hope they panic and give in.”
Or “Instead of getting married again, I’m going to find a woman I don’t like and just give her a house.”  – Steven Seagal (This is the only quote with an attribution.)
And I can’t help but say, I enjoyed the comparison between men and fine wine.  “They both start out as grapes.  It’s our job to stomp them, and then keep them in the dark until they mature.  And hopefully they’ll turn out to be something we’d like to have dinner with.”
But along with great humor writing comes depressing forwards too, about little boys without any shoes or girls in tattered pink dresses, or even more startling, an insight about aging which says,
“Mid-life is when the growth of hair on our legs slows down, which gives us plenty of time to care for our newly acquired mustache.”
And then there are the threats: “If you fail to forward this forward to six people in six days at six o’clock, you will gain sixty pounds!”
I’d like to start a campaign so that we can all get back to real writing and communication, creating intimate connections with the human beings who enrich our lives and leave those cold, cold impersonally for. . . wait a minute, I just received an hysterical forward about women, oh, you’ve got to read this one.  I’m falling off my chair!  Hold on, I’ll forward it to you.

Article originally published in Chicagoland Daily Herald and other newspapers in the column titled, Slightly Off.

My daughter is taking karate and you should be very afraid. She’s a yellow belt. Before that she was a white belt. Each belt has all these colorful stripes. I have no idea what any of these belts or stripes mean, but I must say they complement any outfit. I do know that her goal is to get a black belt, and since black goes with everything, I think she’s made a wise choice.

It all began when my daughter, Lauren, brought me this newspaper ad that read, “Ever since I joined karate, my room is always clean.”

Now you might think it ludicrous that my husband and I would pay $70 a month for my daughter to keep her room clean, but then, you haven’t seen her room. Actually I thought the $70 included a person that would come over and clean her room, but unfortunately that hasn’t happened.

But other things are happening.  She’s changing and I can’t quite put my finger on it. At home she strikes all these poses and punches the air with purpose. She looks tough, really tough, and yet graceful.

Before we leave for Karate, something awfully strange takes place. If she sees that her uniform is wrinkled, I am not kidding, she irons it! Yes, My teen-ager can actually see the wrinkles! And then, this 13-year-old, who can never even locate her own socks, amazingly tracks down the iron and ironing board and then even more astounding, uses them.

When she walks into the karate studio, she bows. When she meets her instructor, she bows.  She shows respect to her fellow students. They must follow a code of conduct an arm long. They have a student creed which kids are to memorize that reads:

I will behave in a way that will make my karate school and my family happy.
I will be true to my karate school and what it teaches.
I will be honest and help my parents my teachers and my friends.
I will not hit. I will only use karate in protecting myself or my family.

(I immediately went home and wrote up a family creed.  Now I just need the karate instructors to come over and make my kids follow it.)

When my daughter, Lauren, earns another stripe, she walks out of the karate studio with her head held high.  According to the instructor, the stripes are earned when the students learn another one of the self-defense moves, each a blend of the Kyukyu Kempo and Modern Arnis styles.

I know nothing about Martial Arts, but I do know that they’ve shown Lauren how to defend herself if she’s grabbed from behind. They’ve shown her the places on a body that will bring a person to the ground.  She can kick as high as any cheerleader.  She can do something to a shoulder that could make grown people cry. And they’ve shown her how to make these grunting noises that scare our dog to death.

Of course the question in the back of my mind is, will all these moves work if my beautiful, young daughter is attacked? If you’ve ever seen the Pink Panther movies, Inspector Clusou has a house boy that is instructed to attack him by surprise anytime, anywhere.  I’d like to try that, but I’m afraid. Her older brother is afraid too. We’ve seen her practice, and well, we make a point not to surprise her these days.

I’m hoping the repetition of doing these moves for months on end will unconsciously kick in when they have to, even if she is terrified. I’m hoping that the punches that now meet only air, will connect with force.

I’m hoping she’ll kick where it counts and bring the attacker to the ground withering in agony.

If karate can do all that, frankly, I don’t care what her room looks like.

Click here to purchase Tales of a Slightly Off Supermom where Deb shares more of her humorous stories in her published book.

Article originally published in Chicagoland Daily Herald and other newspapers in the column titled, Slightly Off.

It was supposed to be a routine trip to the library. I would help my five-year-old pick out a few books, then head back home and move on to more important things, like the laundry, the bills and the home office, all overflowing after a long weekend. But my daughter’s simple question changed all that.

“Mom, can I get my own library card? I’m five now, you know.”

“Well, that’s true,” I sighed. “Let’s ask the librarian. But we’ve got to hurry.”

When Jenna heard she was old enough for a card of her own, she looked as if she had just won Barbie’s dream house. While I gave the librarian the necessary information, patrons smiled as she impatiently hopped up and down, Jenna skipped down the aisles picking out books. In honor of the momentous occasion, we decided to take out 20 books instead of the usual 10. While perusing the shelves, the librarian came over and handed Jenna her new card and a bright green sticker that said, “I got my library card today.”

Jenna scrutinized the card for what seemed like hours. “There’s my name,” she said matter-of-factly.  Then she pulled the backing off the sticker and placed it proudly on the front of her t-shirt.

Once at the check-out counter, she carefully slid her card out of its brown paper envelope and ceremoniously placed it on the counter. The librarian congratulated her and Jenna looked like she had just been awarded lifetime membership into the Barbie fan club. On the way home, I told Jenna how it was important it was to keep her card in a special place. “When I was little I kept mine in my jewelry box.”

“It’s just so cool, mom,” Jenna said still in awe. “You don’t need money, just a card.”

We went home and ate lunch. An idea was brewing, yet I resisted it. I had work to do.  But it finally bubbled to the surface of my heart. “How about if after lunch we get a blanket and lay it out under the tree in the backyard and read some of your library books?” By the way Jenna swallowed the rest of her PBJ in one gulp, I could tell she liked the idea. Together we pulled out a blanket and spread it under the trees lining our lot line. Then we settled down with a pile of books. Jenna insisted on using her card to swipe the front of each book, in librarian fashion, before she let me begin reading. We first read about a teen tiny ghost who is haunted by his cousin Brad. Jenna couldn’t help but see the connection between bratty Brad and the practical jokes her own brother often played on her. Then onto a book where the title alone had Jenna in stitches.   Beware of Boys, from there we learned about a girl of Jewish faith who never had a Christmas tree.  But Jenna thought the eight gifts for each candle in the menorah sounded okay too. We read about a mom’s good night game with her daughter which always began with the question “Who do you love?” And Jenna said quietly, “I love you, mom.”

Last, was a book about Paris.  The mom in the book is describing the city to her daughter: “The city at night was like magic with the trees whispering and the river reflecting the lights and the moon in the sky.”

And our ordinary day became a magic day with the trees whispering, and the sun reflecting the light in Jenna’s eyes as she swiped her card across the page. That night, the magic was still alive as Jenna carried her card to her own room.  She held it up for me to see and said, “Mom, remember?” Then she opened the lid on her Barbie Jewelry box and placed it gently inside.

Click here to purchase Tales of a Slightly Off Supermom where Deb shares more of her humorous stories in her published book.

Article originally published in Chicagoland Daily Herald and other newspapers in the column titled, Slightly Off.

It’s my sister’s fault.  She brings her filthy little habit into my home and the next thing you know, I’m desperate to know what a caspian feeder is! She lured me into her sick game with the skill of a deadly dealer. Sitting at my kitchen table with her paraphernalia in full view, right there in front of me and my innocent children, she asked, “So, what’s a word for mocking playfully?”

“Teasing,” I tossed off without a backward glance.

“That’s it!” she cried. Then she had the nerve to ask a second question.  “What’s another word for hurl?”

“Uh, throw, fling,” I guessed.

“FLING!  You’re right again,” she said in amazement. “You’re so smart.”

I took the bait. I sidled over to her seat and casually glanced over her shoulder. “Type of duck, that starts with L? That’s gotta be lame, dontcha think?” I asked.

“You’re a genius!” she gushed and reeled me right in.

The next thing I knew, I was hunched over the table, and rocking my head between my hands in a desperate attempt to shake some marbles lose. “What gratifies vanity? What kind of trees quake? What’s a Milanese monetary unit? Someone help me!”

Before my sister forced her compulsion for crossword puzzles onto my tiny brain, I was content with my own stupidity.  I hated crossword puzzles, because I decided if being able to complete one was a sign of intelligence, then, I was obviously an idiot. Yet, I’ll admit, every once in a while, in one of those rare “I feel intelligent moments,” I’d pull out the daily puzzle and convince myself that I was capable of completing it. Confidently, I’d scan the clues, swiftly write in two or three answers and then stop, look, think.  Think, look. Look, think. Think, look, pull hair out, curse, crumble, rip puzzle into itty bitty pieces and then to assure myself that I was plenty smart enough, I’d offer to help out my daughter with her ABC’s.

I could’ve lived my entire life in a haze of ignorant bliss, never knowing that an aril was a seed coating, or that there was such a place as the Inner Hebrides Island.  But now that my sister comes over and fills in half puzzles and then heartlessly walks out, leaving the unfinished drug right on my table, I’m constantly confronted by my mental ineptitude.

I thought a suffering ennui was a sick bird, and after checking my dictionary, I discover it means boredom.  Do you think that helped me fill in the puzzle? NO!!  And you’d think the clue, “One of the Astaires” would leave four spaces for Fred, right?  WRONG!  And a “wide separation” is not only a gape, but also a gulf! And they both have four letters.

Things were unraveling at home. I hadn’t cooked in weeks, the lid on the laundry basket hit the ceiling, I was ignoring the kids – wait a minute, I do those things every week. Then one day it happened. After hours of hair pulling, I realized that “twenty cents?” was not a pair of dimes, but a PARADIGMS! I did it! I had finished the entire puzzle. It was like reaching nirvana. I sang, I danced, I giggled like a school girl – a super smart school girl, of course.

Naturally, the healthy thing to do, would be to stop and never do another puzzle again, right? Walk away while I still have a few marbles left. And that’s exactly what I intend to do. Yup. Right after one you tell me what a caspian feeder is, I’m quitting. Cold turkey. By the way, what’s another name for cold turkey? Leftovers maybe?

Click here to purchase Tales of a Slightly Off Supermom where Deb shares more of her humorous stories in her published book.

Article originally published in Chicagoland Daily Herald and other newspapers in the column titled, Slightly Off.

My husband and I breathed a deep sigh of relief.  Now that we had the two older children’s meetings out of the way, the kindergarten conference would be a cake walk. Actually, we were looking forward to Jenna’s first parent teacher conference. Our youngest was so intelligent, intuitive and with her fascination for bugs, obviously destined for a career in entomology or with Orkin – that we were more than eager to hear what the teacher had to say about our brilliant baby.

We waited impatiently outside the classroom door as the teacher talked to the parents before us.  I paced back and forth and glanced at my watch.  “It’s 7:16!” I said in exasperation.  “They’ve just robbed us of one minute of our time!”

My husband cleared his throat loudly.

I coughed. It was an unspoken conference rule, that if the parents before you went overtime, it was your job to let them know as subtly as possible.

At 7:19, I tossed my purse inside the classroom door. “Oops!” I said, retrieving it. “It just slipped out of my hands,” I apologized, “at exactly SEVEN NINETEEN!”

The parents stood up to leave. I waved my husband inside.

Together we sat half of ourselves down in the tiny chairs.

“Let’s see,” Mrs. Williams, said, glancing down at her schedule.  She looked up smiling. “You are Jenna’s parents.”

“Yes, we are,” we beamed proudly.

Mrs. Williams pulled out Jenna’s file.  She seemed to be giggling to herself.  Then the giggle exploded into laughter.  My husband and I exchanged worried glances.  Mrs. Williams seemed to be suffering from post traumatic conference disorder.  Just our luck for scheduling on the last day.

“Before we look at these papers,” she said, attempting to control herself, “I’ve got to tell you that your daughter is a stitch!”

“A stitch?” I asked.

“She’s soooo funny.  And the stories she tells about you two,” she guffawed, “Hysterical!”

My husband and I slid down into our chairs.

“By the way, Mr. DiSandro, (giggle) how is your (giggle, giggle) head, since the accident?” Mrs. Williams asked.

“What accident?” My husband asked.

“You know, when you tripped on the ladder rung and dumped the whole can of purple paint on your head?” She said laughing. “Jenna tells the story with such expression.”

“I’m sure she does,” my husband said.

“And YOU!” Mrs. Williams said, pointing at me. “The way Jenna described how you were screaming, ‘Get off my new carpet! Get off my new carpet!’ well, the entire class couldn’t stop laughing.”

I quickly assured Mrs. Williams this incident had never happened, but she was holding her stomach and didn’t seem to hear me.

Taking a deep breath, she asked, “Oh and how is business, Mr. DiSandro? We’ve heard all about your donut shop and how you stumble out of bed at 3 o’clock in the morning, (giggle, giggle) mumbling, ‘Got to make the donuts.’”

My husband interrupted, “I don’t own a donut shop.”

“Oh, we know you don’t OWN it, Mr. DiSandro, but everybody has to make a living, right?”

“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “My husband is NOT a donut maker.”

“That’s what Jenna says!” she gasped, breaking into a new fit of giggles.

My husband shook his head, “Just tell us how Jenna is doing in school?”

“School?”

“Yes, in kindergarten!” I insisted.

“She’s doing just fine,” Mrs. Williams assured us as she pulled out Jenna’s file.  Here is her daily journal. The children are writing and sounding out words all by themselves, so its sometimes difficult to read.  But

Jenna can tell you all about it.” She pointed to a busy page. “See, this is the two of you hanging the kitchen wallpaper.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes! This is when you threw wallpaper paste at each other and Jenna put you both in a time out chair.  She is just a stitch isn’t she?”

“Just a stitch,” we agreed. “Thank you, Mrs. Williams.  We’re going home to talk to the little snitch, I mean stitch, right now.”

“But you still have five minutes of conference time left!”  Mrs. Williams shouted to our retreating backs.

My husband sighed.  “Oh, well,” he said.  “If she doesn’t go into bugs, she might one day be president of the Liar’s Club.”

Click here to purchase Tales of a Slightly Off Supermom where Deb shares more of her humorous stories in her published book.

Article originally published in Chicagoland Daily Herald and other newspapers in the column titled, Slightly Off.

Everyone knows the worst case scenario of leaving young children home alone. With independence suddenly thrust upon them, your innocent, babes might decide to lock the door and never let you back in. But no one ever talks about the equally dangerous act of leaving your husband home alone.

Sure a few hours alone and your hubby only has time to rearrange your kitchen cabinets, to help maximize your cooking efficiency, or set the thermostat back sixty degrees and install a multitude of motion sensor lights to cut down on the utility bills.
But if you foolishly leave him alone for an entire weekend, I can guarantee you’ll be the one screaming and holding your head.

I discovered this when I went away on a two-day speaking engagement and came home to find my husband in the arms of an unidentified creature.

“Welcome home, honey!” my husband said, walking towards me.

The creature lurched forward and started licking my face.

“Yuch! Get that thing away from me!”

My husband looked up in surprise. “Hey, that’s not a very nice welcome for your own dog.”

“My dog?!” I gasped.  “This thing is my baby?” My Champ?

“Yeah, what’s wrong?”

“WHAT’S WRONG? Look at him.  My white fluffy fur ball looks like he’s been in a cat fight with a cougar.”

“Oh, that. I canceled Champ’s appointment at the Pet Palace and decided to cut him myself.”

“You what?!” I cried grabbing Champ out of my husband’s arms.  “What did you use?” I asked accusingly, “the hedge trimmer?” Champ looked like one of those Chia pets with a major grub problem. Tufts of fur stood up and out at odd angles. His tail was unrecognizable and one ear flopped with too much hair, while the other stood almost bare. Suddenly Champ scrambled out of my arms and hid behind the couch. “Look,” I said. “He acts as if he knows.”

“Well,” my husband admitted. “He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and  hasn’t eaten since.”

I heard a commotion outside and looked out the window to see a band of people gathering on our driveway.

“Are those people out there again?” my husband sighed.

“Again?”

“Yeah, ever since I took Champ for a walk, they keep coming back.  I think they’re upset, because I won’t buy the product they’re selling.”

“What product?” I asked.

“Pita Bread. They keep yelling Pita, Pita. “

“That’s not bread! They’re from Peta, the People for the ethical treatment of animals.”

Champ whimpered.

“It’ll grow back,” my husband assured me.

Life hasn’t been easy as we wait for Champ’s fur to grow back.  When we take him for walks, neighbors and their pets quickly cross to the other side of the street for fear they’ll catch whatever Champ has.  He’s been shunned at our local dog park and his girlfriend next door, dumped him for a well-groomed poodle.
Champ was obviously depressed, so we did what any responsible dog owner would do in the same situation; we took him to group therapy. The group is made up of dogs, just like him, pets left home alone with a man on a mission to save forty bucks.

Together the dogs work on anger management, like how to forgive your owner and let go of his leg. They teach them positive self-bark, like, “I’m okay, You’re okay.”  They listen to books on tape, like the best-seller, When Bad things happen to Good Dogs.

I think Champ is going to be okay.  But I’ve learned my lesson.  Next time I go away on a two-day business trip, I’m leaving him at the kennel.  Sure, Champ will be home alone, but it’s safer than the alternative.

Click here to purchase Tales of a Slightly Off Supermom where Deb shares more of her humorous stories in her published book.