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.

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

I’m happy today because the Dow is up. As a matter of fact, I’m so ecstatic, I’m buying myself a gift to celebrate. Yesterday, I could hardly get up because the Dow was down. And a down Dow means I’ve got to drag myself out of bed and quickly make a purchase!  And there’s nothing like being told you have to buy something that takes the sheer joy right out of it. It took every ounce of energy I could muster to drag that leather jacket of mine up to the check-out counter, but somehow I managed. Obviously the purchase was worth it, because the next day the Dow was up! I was so excited, I went out to lunch.

I’ll let you in on a little secret. I am totally responsible for the Dow. I’ve tested it. If I don’t buy, the Dow tumbles. If I do buy, it magically goes up.  “When the headlines say, “Consumer confidence fell again, or “Consumers increased their purchases in stores and restaurants,” They’re talking about me. I’m “consumer.” It’s my purchases that keep the economy on track.

It’s the same way when I watch a Bears Game. I’ve discovered that I’m solely responsible for the outcome. If I walk out of the room, the Bears score a touchdown. If I stay in the room, the ball is intercepted and the other team scores. It makes perfect sense to me, but my husband is slightly confused.

“I really wanted to cook tonight,” I explained to him while grabbing my purse, and pushing him out the door, “but the Dow dropped two points, so we have no choice but to go out to dinner.”

“Why couldn’t our neighbors hold up the Dow tonight?”

“They tried last night, and it didn’t work.  For some strange reason, it has to be me.”

In the name of consumer confidence, I had our names and addresses printed and embossed on our Christmas cards this year. Of course, I’ll be depriving myself of the pleasure of spending hours writing all our names out in long-hand, but it’s my economic duty.

The other day I came home with dozens of decorative plates full of holiday cookies.

“But mom, we always bake our own cookies,” the kids pouted.

“I know,” I explained as gently as I could. “I’ll truly miss the way we all yell and scream at each other, splatter cookie batter on the ceiling, burn half the batches and get red and green sprinkles embedded into the tile floor, but the Dow dipped today.”

My husband walked in behind me. “Hey, who put up our outside Christmas lights?”

“Oh, this nice man,” I said, humming while arranging my cookies on a platter.

“You mean some guy just decided to decorate our house for free?”

“Don’t be silly, I paid him, of course.”

“You paid some guy to put up lights?”

“Honey,” I explained.  “The Dow dipped.”

“The Dow dipped?” he yelled.  “How about the dip in our checkbook?”

“The economy is more important than our checkbook,” I assured him, switching on the radio. The stock market report was on:  “The Dow is up a half a point.”

“See,” I said, smiling smugly at my husband.

“See what?” he asked. “That you’re crazy!”

“Shh…” I said as the announcer continued.

“A recent survey shows that households are still confident enough about the future to make major long-term commitments.”

“There,” said my husband breathing a sigh of relief. “He said ‘households’, not the DiSandro household.  It’s not just you.”

“I suppose you’re right,” I admitted. “But I’m sure my long-term commitment to the wine of the month club, CD club and the fruit of the week club helped.”

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.

Kindergarten has sure changed since I was a kid.  Gone are the carefree days of playing tag on the playground, napping on blue vinyl mats, and happily ingesting paste.  The kids are onto more complicated activities like, finding their lockers, learning the mind-boggling job of left line leader and religiously letting the classroom hamster out of its cage.

Yes, these are stressful times for kindergarteners, but as with all grades from K through 52, depending on if your kid is on the 30 year college plan, no one suffers more than the parents.

You can bet our parents were never tortured by the “Color of the Week” week!  Oh, sure, the concept sounds simple enough, but carrying it out, turned my military-precision morning routine into total mayhem, where before it was only semi-mayhem.

The day the paper came home telling me to dress my child in a different color of the day, for an entire week, I contentiously taped it on the fridge. Then, like all the other important school papers posted there, I quickly forgot about it.  It wasn’t until we were outside and the bus came rumbling down the street that my daughter, Jenna,  turned to me and said, “Mom, today’s red day!”

“Oh, really honey?” I yawned. “That’s nice.”
“Mom, I’m supposed to wear red!”

I looked down at her white t-shirt and black stretch pants.  I ran back inside the house and grabbed the first red thing I could find.  As the bus pulled up to the house, I squirted a blob of ketchup on Jenna’s shirt. She glared.

“Tomorrow I’ll do better,” I assured her. I went back in the house, determined to make the next color day, a success. I spent the entire afternoon searching through closets and dresser drawers for yellow which was when I made a startling discovery.  Jenna’s wardrobe was 99.9% pink. And there wasn’t even a pink day on the sheet!
But with a little ingenuity, I took an old yellow t-shirt of mine and decided it would make a nice dress, and that a yellow hair scrunchy would work perfect as a belt. The next morning, Jenna was dressed in yellow from her headband, right down to her shoelaces.

Jenna looked in the mirror. “I look like a big banana!” She cried.
“Isn’t that good?” I asked.
“Everybody’s gonna laugh.”
I assured her that everyone was going to look like a banana.

When she returned from school, she assured me she was the only one who looked like a fruit.

Green day posed another problem.  In desperation, I pulled a head of lettuce out of the fridge, glued a couple dozen leafs on the front of her t-shirt and pushed her out the door. She came home, with a single leaf clinging to her t-shirt.

“What happened?” I asked.
“The hamster wouldn’t leave me alone.”

On blue day, I didn’t bother looking for the color, instead I recorded my own CD about a mother who sings the blues, BECAUSE HER KID DOESN’T HAVE ANYTHING TO WEAR ON BLUE DAY! I thought the teacher might take the hint and leave us poor parents alone. Instead she wrote back, “Dear Mrs. DiSandro, How clever you are!  Now I know where Jenna gets her creativity.”

The next day was brown day. I was so exhausted, I did what any responsible parent would do in the same situation, I kept her home from school.

Well, color week came to a close last Friday.  I breathed a sigh of relief.  Monday morning things would be back to their usual, comfortable semi-mayhem.

“Mom!” Jenna shouted, bursting through the door, “I’ve got another paper for you!”
The paper read, “It’s Home Coming Spirit Week! The dress up days are as follows, Mon: Sports Jersey day, Tue: Rainbow day, Wed: Clash day. . .

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