I Smell Barbeque – and Burnt Hair

By Sharie Derrickson

I have done a few things that have not only shocked (or humiliated) my family, but also had them running for their lives or running for the telephone to call an ambulance – like the time I used bleach AND sulfuric acid to clean out a clogged drain. See, apparently, and you should know that I flunked chemistry class, this combination of chemicals makes a pretty green iridescent cloud known as “a weapon of mass destruction,” and according to the people at poison control, I’m an idiot.

“Yeah, Poison Control, this is Sharie Derrickson . . .”

“Oh, not you again!”

“It’s me. Anyway, my drain is clogged you see, so I put some stuff in the drain to unclog it, and then, see, like this giant green cloud is filling up my house, the stuff in the sink is bubbling, and I am feeling a bit sick to my stomach.”

“Are you in the house now?”

“Yes."

"Why?"

"I’m using my Shop-Vac to clean the stuff out of the drain before my husband finds out what I’ve done.”

“And you figured that if you used HIS Shop-Vac to remove a deadly gas-producing and corrosive agent from the sink, everything would be alright?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“You’re an idiot. Turn off the Shop-Vac and get out of the house.”

“Should I unplug it?”

“Unplug what?”

“The Shop-Vac.”

“Forget the Shop-Vac and get out of the house.”

“But my husband’s going to be real mad at me if I ruin his Shop-Vac.”

“You already did.”

“Rats.”

“Mrs. Derrickson?”

“Huh.”

“Are you out of the house?”

“Oh, yeah, wait a minute. I think I left the iron on – I have to turn that off.”

“Oh, for crying out loud – just get out of the house.”

“Okay, okay, keep your pants on. There, I’m out of the house. Are you happy now?”

“Good. Now you have to stay out of the house for several hours. I will call you every half hour or so to make sure you are all right. If you start to have breathing problems, you need to call back right away, or go to the emergency room.”

“What if I pass out?”

“What do you mean, what if you pass out?”

“Should I call you if I pass out?”

Silence. Silence. Silence. “No.”

Anyway, this past weekend was something like that, because, as my husband informed me, cleaning drains and barbequing is “Man’s Work.” In our house, we have pretty clearly defined rolls – he cleans out the drains, runs dangerous lawn grooming equipment, and handles things that have to do with fire. My roll is to stay out of his way and not play with his stuff. But, this weekend, my husband was pretty busy with his dangerous lawn grooming equipment, so I decided that I would be brave and cook dinner on the gas grill.

I am afraid of the gas grill. It could be the list of precautions my husband has posted on the grill. “Caution: This grill uses a flammable gas that can set your hair on fire if you are not paying attention. This grill is heavy and should not be moved unless it is by a trained professional. This grill has sharp edges. Grill tongs are not toys and should be used with the supervision of a male relative. This grill is for cooking food only and not for things like drying socks or melting leg wax.”

It was with a certain amount of trepidation that I approached the grill with a platter of meat, and I had to do it in baby steps, stopping every so often to muster up more courage by talking to myself.

“Come on, Sharie. You can do this. Don’t be such a baby.”

“Oh, shut up. Look at that list of stuff that can go wrong.”

“Wrong – smong. He just put that sign there to scare you.”

“No – that’s not why. He is trying to protect me.”

“He thinks you’re an idiot.”

“He does not.”

“Chicken.”

“I’m not a chicken.”

“Sharie’s a chicken. Sharie’s a chicken.”

“Shut up.”

“Buuuck-a-buck-buck-buck.”

“That’s it. I’m not listening to you any more. You’re stupid.”

“I know you are, but what am I?”

“Now that’s real mature.”

“Chicken.”

Anyway, I went on like this with myself for about ten minutes until I rustled up the nerve to light the grill, carefully following the directions.

Turn on gas.

“Okay, I did that.”

Hit the ignition switch once.

“I’ll give that a try.”

Nothing.

“I guess I’ll have to light it by hand,” I said as I ran inside to get matches. “Okay, let’s give this a try,” I said, striking the match near the bottom where the gas came out.

Okay, okay, so I should have turned the gas off before I went inside to find the match. How was I supposed to know? It wasn’t written on my husband’s list of precautions. And so what if I am missing a part of my right eyebrow. I just pluck them out anyway. I can make the other one match. And so what if I maybe ruined his grill. What’s the next holiday coming up – Father’s Day? Cool. I just made buying that gift way easier. See, I’m not an idiot after all.

© 2006 Sharie Derrickson. Previously printed in the Thousand Islands Sun.

Off My Game

By Sharie Derrickson

My husband and daughter have few things in common. This is for several reasons. My daughter is a teenage girl. That means she likes stuff like hair gel, the telephone, fashion accessories, and purses that match her socks. My husband has no interest in any of that, and has an intense dislike for hair gel, as I know when my daughter approaches him and says, “Dad, let me just put a little hair gel on you and update your look.”

“What do you mean, update my look? What’s wrong with how I look?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Kidding about what? I happen to like my hair the way that it is and I’m not wearing hair gel.”

“Moooommm,” my daughter yells. “Tell dad to let me try some hair gel on him.”

“Honey, let her put some hair gel on you.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s funny.”

My daughter runs into the bathroom and grabs the hair gel and her arsenal of styling tools with a look of glee in her eyes that I only see when the word “mall” is mentioned.

“All right, hold still,” she says as she rubs gel into her hands. “The key is to put it at the roots so that you get a little body and then you spike it up – like this.”

She and I stand back to look at her work. “Well?” he asks as I burst out in teary-eyed laughter.

“Why are you laughing? What did you do to me?” he says as he runs to the mirror.

“You look like a troll doll,” I said, continuing to laugh. It’s true. He did look like a troll doll, but a middle-aged troll doll with a receding hairline.

“Man, I never knew your forehead was that big,” my daughter said. “Have you considered renting it out as billboard space?”

“You’re funny,” he said, trying to fix his hair in the mirror. “Now get away from me with that hair gel – hair gel is for girls,” he snapped.

“And for people with hair,” my daughter said, laughing.

For some reason, by husband is very sensitive about his hair. Anyway . . .

No, my daughter is at that stage when she and I have more in common. We like some of the same things, like shirts that don’t have food stains on them, hats without earflaps, things that smell pretty, and hair gel.

When my daughter was younger, she and my husband used to do a lot of stuff together, but then, my daughter grew up and developed an aversion to things that made her dirty, and she feels unclean unless she changes her clothes no less than four times a day. She also isn’t too keen on anything that might mess up her nail polish. She had reached that stage in her life where she and her father had less in common than they used to, and soon, she will be at that stage where she will deny knowing him at any public event. We are not quite at that stage yet. She still lets him go with her to ball games and such, but she insists that he not say anything. “Okay dad. Don’t do anything to embarrass me.”

“Like what?”

“What do you mean, like what? Like don’t pretend to be all cool around my friends.”

“How do I pretend to be cool?”

“Well, that’s what mom does and it drives me crazy.”

“What does she do?”

“She started break dancing when she was chaperoning at activity night at school. I was mortified.”

Okay, so I like to dance. I don’t see why she gets all bent out of shape about it. So my daughter and my husband are struggling – her for independence, and him to be a part of her life. I explain to him that it’s a normal part of adolescent behavior, but I can tell that it bothers him. So, he was very happy this past weekend when he and she found a common bond – something that they both can do together. It’s a computer game called, “Age of Empires.”

I have no desire to do video games, so I think they were both happy that it was something that didn’t involve me. No, instead, the two of them stayed holed up in my husband’s office, coming downstairs long enough to grab survival gear like food and water, and to occasionally come into the living room to talk about the computer game.

“Dad has the two computers hooked into the network, and I went into Britain and formed an army to fight the Saxons.”

For a minute, I was happy that she was learning something, like who the Saxons were, so I began to try to have a conversation with her about it. "Oh, the Saxons. How interesting. Did you know that the Saxons were made up from people from three parts of Germany?”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Do we have any Crunch and Munch?”

I felt left out and tried to stimulate some thread of connection. “Did you know the Saxons invented Crunch and Munch?”

“Really. Cool.” She then ran out of the room. “Hey Dad, did you know that the Saxons invented Crunch and Munch?”

“Did your mother tell you that?”

“Yes.”

“She’s lying.”

I was then shut out of any conversation that involved their newfound passion. For two days, my husband and daughter plundered each other’s villages, invaded each other’s territories, and engaged in fierce battles over strategic tracts of land as I watched the History Channel to find out that even though the Saxons didn’t invent Crunch and Munch, they did invent the self-winding wristwatch and published the first daily newspaper in 1650, but my husband and daughter could have cared less. They were too busy pillaging.

I felt left out and sat in the living room seething each time I heard the trumpet sound of an invading army. I had to resort to desperate measures. Think, Sharie. Think. A stroke of genius came to me – go to things that are tried, true, and tested. I went up stairs into the bathroom and began my ruse. “Heeeelllllp.”

“What’s wrong?” my husband yelled.

“I can’t figure out this hair gel. My hair looks awful and I can’t fix it.”

I heard my daughter grumble. “Hold on mom – I’ll be right there – I just have to fend off this Celtic attack.”

I smiled, knowing my trick worked. “Did you know that the Celts invented hair gel?”

“Really?” my daughter asked as she styled my hair.

“Really. It was first used in 1202 as a cooking oil, but the Celts began to market it as a hair gel after an explosion at a diner, and it got in some Celt’s hair. It became a common traded commodity between them and the Saxons, as a matter of fact. I think Vidal Sassoon was the first Saxon to label it as such and sell it internationally.” Okay, I lied, but I was back in the game. When all else fails, resort to weapons you know will work – and in this case, it was hair gel. And for just a little bit of time, she and I were our old selves – doing hair together and poking fun at her father. Precious moments. Time well spent.

“There. You look great,” she said.

“Thanks honey.”

“No problem,” giving me a hug and turning to go back into the office.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, mom.”

And then, she was gone, but for a brief moment, we connected by doing something meaningful and my heart was full.

“Hey dad,” I heard her say laughing, “I just did mom’s hair, and guess who now looks like a troll doll.”

“You’re heartless,” he said.

“Yeah, I know.”

I hate that game.

© 2006 Sharie Derrickson. Previously printed in the Thousand Islands Sun.

The Ancient Art of Bathroom Zen

By Sharie Derrickson

For several months now, my husband, daughter and I have had to do the unthinkable – share one bathroom, something my husband says is against the Geneva Convention and has contacted Amnesty International lodging charges that his basic human right to leave hair in the sink is being repressed.

But, my daughter and I are close to having our own bathroom – a project that has taken less planning than the Summer Olympics. The reason for this is that women need more stuff in their bathroom than men do – God made us that way – which is one reason why He designed us so that we just can’t walk outside and go. However, it is this difference between the sexes that has led to much contention in my house.

According to bathroom scientist, men only need about six sundries in their bathroom – a toothbrush, toothpaste, a razor, a comb, a towel, and a magazine, and they only need about 15 minutes each morning to complete their daily ritual. Women, on the other hand require about 200 items, most of which require special lighting to use, and on average, women will spend almost 30,000 hours of their life in the bathroom, while men will spend less than 8,000.

And, according to the same scientists, men will spend the other 22,000 hours waiting to get into the bathroom, one of the primary reasons that my daughter and I need our own bathroom.

A typical Saturday goes something like this:

My husband: Knock. Knock. “Can I get in there please?”

My daughter and I in unison from behind the door: “Why?”

My husband: “Because I have to use the bathroom. Why else would I have to get into the bathroom?”

Me: “Can you use the bathroom downstairs?”

My husband: “Why don’t you use the bathroom downstairs? This is, after all, my bathroom.”

My daughter: “Because the lighting is bad in that bathroom.”

My husband: “Oh. Yeah. How stupid of me. I wasn’t thinking. Sorry.

Last year, we remodeled my husband’s bathroom so that my daughter and I would have a bathroom to use while ours was in the “developmental stage.” His old bathroom was just too ugly to use, and nothing will put a woman in a bad mood as easily as an ugly bathroom, according to my “Feng Shui for Bathrooms” book.

So, after months of my daughter claiming “squatter’s rights” on my husband’s bathroom, we are nearing the ribbon cutting ceremony to our own version of the dream bathroom – our own Taj Mahal complete with “makeup appropriate” lighting, and enough outlets to power a football stadium.

Over the past several months, we have had several family meetings regarding the overall “feel” of the bathroom – what sort of ambiance or theme we wanted.

“Okay, I’ve called you both here today to discuss what motif we want to go with,” I said, holding a stack of design books.

“How about a bathroom motif – you know – a toilet, a shower, and some towels,” my husband said.

“Funny,” I said, sarcastically.

“What do you mean, funny? It’s a bathroom. What’s to design?”

“Look, according to this Feng Shui book, an unbalanced bathroom can knock your ying and yang all askew. It’s important that we choose the right colors and materials so that there is harmony and a proper flow of energy. I think we should go with something kind of Zen.”

“Okay, Grasshopper, what exactly does Zen have to do with a bathroom – in fact, I’m not even sure I know what Zen is.”

“Zen – you know – that enlightenment can come through self-meditation. Zen.”

“Riiiiigggghhhhhhtttt,” my husband said.

“The purpose of Zen is to reach enlightenment or Nirvana.”

“And you are going to do that in the bathroom?”

“Well, that’s oversimplifying it, but yes, by the proper use of design elements of earth, wind, and fire.”

“You are going to have fire in the bathroom?”

“It’s a metaphor, Dad,” my daughter said.

“A metaphor for what? Your blow dryer?”

“Honey, this is serious business. If you use the wrong components, you will mess up the Karma.”

“Karma?”

“Yes, the cosmic forces of retribution,” I said. “We want good Karma.”

“So let me get this right – you could knock the forces of the universe out of whack and set off a chain reaction of negative energy because you picked the wrong paint?”

“Well, in the very least, it would be bad Dharma.”

“And Dharma is what again?” he asked.

“Dharma is important to remove dead or stagnant energies.”

“I thought that is what a toilet is for.” Apparently, my husband has no problem tempting fate by messing with the forces of the universe and in having a bathroom that emits negative energy, which is one of the reasons my daughter and I have worked feverously to move into our own. He’s doomed.

So we set off to pick out paint color. Besides bathrooms, paint color is another fundamental difference between men and women. If left to their own devices, men would paint everything either beige or gray, or whatever color was on sale that day. Women, on the other hand, see paint color as an important decision that shouldn’t be done lightly or hastily. The wrong paint, especially in a bathroom, can lead to disaster.

“We need a color that represents earth,” I said to the paint salesman at the paint store.

I could see his and my husband’s eyes make a connection – a connection that said, “Just go along with her buddy or you will be sorry.”

“You mean, like a dirt color?” he said.

“No. Not a dirt color – more like a color that would be stone – I am trying to bring the outdoors inside – give the bathroom an earthy feel to it.”

My husband took off as my daughter and I frustrated the paint guy with the reasons why the colors he selected would be bad for the bathroom’s Chi.

“How about these two colors?” my husband asked, holding two beautiful color samples.

“That’s it,” I chimed. “Perfect. Those will create a positive energy flow in our new bathroom. You’re a genius,” I said, hugging my husband. “What colors are those?”

“Beige and gray,” he said.

Oh well. It’s okay that he’s right – SOMETIMES. Plus, he can use as much positive Karma as he can get.

© 2006 Sharie Derrickson. Previously printed in the Thousand Islands Sun.

Handing Over the Purse Strings

By Sharie Derrickson

There are several things that make men and women different. Aside from the obvious – that men like to eat their sandwiches uncut like barbarians and women don’t – I have found a fundamental dissimilarity between the sexes – handbags.

I am no fashion plate. In fact, if you know anything about me, you know that I could care less about any event that requires me to dress in anything that would ever need to be dry-cleaned. Now, there’s a scam if I ever saw one – dry cleaning. What does “dry clean only” mean, anyway.

But, because clothes labels are so bossy, I do what I am told and whenever I have something that says “dry clean only,” I go to the dry cleaning place and drop my stuff off so that, mysteriously, they come back clean and pressed. To tell you the truth, I have no idea what happens to the clothes. It is one of those mysteries that will have to wait for another column.

And while we are on the subject, I bought my daughter a sweater the other day that had a care label the size of the Magna Charta on it. “Gently hand wash in cool water with mild soap. Wring gently and rinse in bottled spring water from France. Lay flat to let block dry in well-ventilated space, or else. Steam press on low turned inside out. Do not starch. Do not hang. Do no place near an open flame. Do not use garment for any other use not specified on label.”
The care label was also written in Spanish, French, Dutch, and in Braille. Then, the last line said, “Dry clean as needed.” Now, what does that mean? How do I know when it needs dry cleaning? Couldn’t it come with some kind of alarm or sensor that goes off when it is time to dry clean the sweater? What kind of world do we live in? Geezo peezo.

Before my blood pressure goes up, let’s get back to the subject at hand, which is handbags. As I already stated, most of the time, I look like a slob. It’s part of my charm and a good way to not get myself invited to anything that cost money to attend. And, while my daughter, who is an expert shopper, can pick a sale clean like a piranha on a dead water buffalo (strange analogy, I know), I mostly sit on a bench in the mall and watch people – which really means I watch women hand over their giant bags of sale stuff to their husbands, who are sitting next to me with their eyes glassed over wishing they were out buying saws alls and post diggers. Mostly, I am disinterested in shopping for attire.

But, for some strange reason that is totally inexplicable to me, I am attracted to handbags. I love purses – big purses, small purses, purses with chains, purses with pockets, zippers, and matching wallets. When it comes to a purse that I like, I am like a crow that sees something shiny. I just gotta have it. Finding the most excellent of pocketbooks is, for me, the ultimate rush.

This got me to thinking – why is it that I am so attracted to something to carry stuff in, especially when I don’t really like to carry stuff? Is it a byproduct of my upbringing? Is it nature verses nurture? I mean, do women all around the world suffer from purse envy like I do? And, why do we, as women, feel such a need to carry around everything in our house in a bag over our shoulder? Does it stem from our primitive roots of when we were a nomadic people and the only thing you could take with you was your purse?

“Yes dear, I know the rains are coming and it is time for the great hunt, but I can’t leave without my purse.”

So, I decided to do some research on the issue. Now, hold on to your hat (which I hope matches your purse and shoes) but the first handbag was carried by MEN. That’s right girls. The first documented history of the handbag shows that men in Egypt carried the purse – not the ladies, which meant that the guys were the ones to carry the car keys, check book, Chap Stick, Kleenex, and tampons. According to archeologist who study such things because they got really bad advice from their college guidance counselor, ancient hieroglyphs, which is pretty redundant since there is no such thing as non-ancient hieroglyphs, found in Egyptian tombs showed that it was quite fashionable for men to carry purses, and the richer the man, the larger and more elaborate the purse.

Then, around the 16th century, too many men were being diagnosed with bursitis of the shoulder, which interfered with manly things like chopping wood, opening jars, and throwing bowling balls, so the responsibility of carrying the purse was passed off to women.

And, according to fashion archeologist, who got the worst advise ever from their guidance counselor, it was then that the purse took on its full value as not only a bag to carry items, but as a fashion accessory. It went something like this: “I ain’t carrying around the purse any more. It’s not manly and it’s interfering with my ability to do manly things like arm wrestle.”

“Fine then, but you better take me to buy a prettier one with some shoes to match. I wouldn’t be caught dead carrying that ugly thing. And look at the stuff you have in here – a crow bar, a Bowie knife, a sling shot with rocks – no wonder this thing weighs a ton.”

Women then took over the responsibility of carrying the purse and stuffing it full of important items, which at any given time will include; gum, pins, paperclips, dry cleaning receipts (don’t get me back on that subject), eight shades of lip gloss, a box of animal crackers, Desitin, wet naps, buttons, the checkbook, loose change, a change of clothes, and of course, her husband’s wallet and the car keys.

Although subtle in its effects, it was when the duty of carrying the purse was turned over to women that the balance of power shifted, which later led to the Suffrage Movement, which is when women began to complain about stuff, which then led our right to vote, or something like that. To be honest, I never really paid much attention to that part in history class. Anyway, it is because of this that there are some really important women doing important jobs like Supreme Court Justice, and Secretary of State, and New York State Senator, all of which, if you will notice, have handbags that match their shoes.

So, a lot has come out of my research into the pocketbook. I discovered that it was the simple handbag that helped women win equality and that freed men up to do important tasks like opening the pickle jar. I discovered that purses were invented by men who later abandoned the “silly accessory” for more practical accessories like the necktie. I found out what a hieroglyph was, which is nice because I always thought it was a gland in your neck, but, the most important thing that has come out of this research – another column is, “in the bag,” – along with gum, razors, my wallet, car keys, a stapler, dental floss . . .

© 2006 Sharie Derrickson. Previously printed in the Thousand Islands Sun.