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 Kitchen Campaign: An All-Clear and Present Danger

By Sharie Derrickson

Both my husband and daughter have begun their latest campaign, which is to remodel our kitchen. They have made up cute little campaign buttons that say, “Vote Yes to Remodeling,” and they march around my kitchen wearing giant sandwich boards covered in kitchen remodeling propaganda, and scream, “WHAT DO WE WANT? A NEW KITCHEN! WHEN DO WE WANT IT? WE WANT IT NOW!” into one of those bullhorns.

Apparently, the thing that has come out of their latest strategy session is to take me shopping, and somehow, make it so we end up in the appliance department, and then, they begin working on me with their talking points.

“Mom, you would look great standing next to this large capacity stainless steel refrigerator. Come over here so we can get a look,” my daughter says. “Oh, wait, I brought my camera – let’s get a photo of you with it.”

And for a minute, I am almost suckered. “You really think I would look good next to it?” I say, as I put on fresh lipstick.

“Sure you would,” my husband says. “Stainless steel is your color.”

“Well, okay then. But just one quick photo, and don’t take it so my butt looks too big.”

“Oh, I won’t,” my daughter says as she moves me next to the behemoth of a fridge. “You will look tiny next to this fridge.”

I then stand still, place my hand on the side of the fridge, and give my best smile. Then, reality sets in and I think to myself, “Why am I getting my picture taken next to a refrigerator? It’s a little weird – even for me.”

“Can I ask why I am getting my photo taken with an appliance?” I ask them.

“It’s a surprise,” they tell me.

“Oh, okay,” I say, not wanting to spoil whatever surprise they have for me that might include a picture of me standing next to a refrigerator.

It is all part of their systematic indoctrination plan. It is how they operate. They did it to me when they wanted a dog. They did it to me when they wanted new towels. They did it to me when they wanted a Christmas tree. They devise this elaborate plan to somehow draw me in, confuse me – then they bombard me with subliminal messages that I actually need new towels, a Christmas tree, a dog, or a fridge. They are very tricky, these two.

Unfortunately, I usually realize that I have been duped when it’s too late – we now have a dog, new towels, and I already have the tree picked out. Now, they want a new kitchen because, apparently, the kitchen we have is not “kitcheny” enough, and according to my daughter, it’s dangerous.

For me, it has all I need – a fridge, a microwave, and a can opener. I am a minimalist. I can walk to my fridge and pull out chicken tenders from the freezer, pop them in the microwave, and while the main entree is heating up, I can open a can of corn. Once the chicken is adequately nuked, I can zap the corn, and bingo, dinner is served.

But, both my husband and daughter actually like to cook. My husband likes to pound cutlets with this little hammer and roll stuff up. He likes to mince, julienne, garnish, and sauté. I don’t even know what that stuff is. He has tried explaining it to me, but just like when he talks about his work, my eyes glaze over and then, I’m lost. Apparently, my husband works with computers, which requires enough equipment in his office to power NASA. I’m not sure, but I think he might be a secret agent or something like that. Oooops. Not really, Mr. Fitzgerald. I was only joking. He’s just a computer nerd that likes to cook. Honest. He doesn’t even own a pair of dark sunglasses. Anyway . . .

My daughter, the true baker of the family, says that our kitchen is not conducive to culinary science. Okay, I want to know who taught her that – culinary science indeed. It’s called cooking. That’s it. Just cooking. There is nothing scientific about popping nuggets in the microwave – oh, wait, that is pretty scientific if you think about it. I am not sure how a microwave works and it seems weird to me that when you open a microwave, it isn’t hot, but somehow, your food is. Some army widget-guy tried to explain it to me once when we were using a giant microwave satellite dish to transmit images from Africa, but all I got out of the conversation is that I shouldn’t stand in front of it or I will cook my reproductive organs. That is why I never stay in my kitchen when I am using the microwave, and that is why I always forget I have stuff in the microwave and only remember it a week later when my kitchen starts to smell, and OSHA has to be brought in.

Back to my story. So, my daughter has a drawn a flowchart of perfect kitchen and then has written an essay on why our kitchen is an accident waiting to happen since it is an ergonomic nightmare and a lay-in-wait hazard of major proportions. I mean really, where does she get this stuff? It’s like we are storing nuclear waste or something.

Apparently, according to Kitchen Ergonomic Experts, the oven is supposed to be near the center of the kitchen. Ours is not. It is mounted on the wall on the far end of the room, just opposite the bathroom, so it you have to take something out of the oven, you can’t do it if someone is in the bathroom because they might walk out of the bathroom, knock you down, and sent your scalding pie all over the place. So, at my house, if someone is in the bathroom, you have to say loudly, “Don’t come out of the bathroom until the all clear is given,” and then the person in the bathroom is totally embarrassed that someone is talking to them while they are in the bathroom, and is very confused on what “the all clear” means.

Also, both my husband and daughter say that a dishwasher should work, and should not be there just for show. Our dishwasher broke about two years ago and we have yet to replace it.

They have picked out a new fancy-smancy one that is supposed to make pre-washing of dishes before they go into the dishwasher a thing of the past. I dislike new-fangled stuff, even if it can clean the bowls I left in the microwave.

Now, they both say that the refrigerator is too small, which is why I am getting my picture taken with white ones, black ones, stainless steel ones, ones that have doors on top, ones that have double doors, and ones with ice cube dispensers outside the door. I like the one with the ice cube dispenser because then, I don’t have to ever open the fridge to see how dirty it is inside.

I am not sure how I will vote on election day regarding the remodel of the kitchen. There are just too many factors to consider – cost, need, color, size, ergonomic-ness. Should we bite the bullet and do a complete remodel, upgrade what’s in there now, or just replace things as they come up? I do agree about moving the stove, though, and I am sure my guests will concur.

And I do like the stainless steel fridge – it makes me look skinny – and that’s what really counts.

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

Things That Go Jump in the Night

By Sharie Derrickson

I’ve seen some pretty strange stuff in my time, but none more strange than the one I saw the other night, and I must admit, I am still pretty creeped out by the whole affair. There is a stretch of road near my house that is right out of, “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” The trees are all twisted and menacing looking and have these huge arms that I am afraid are going to someday reach down and grab me and chew my leg off, and then, I expect for the headless horseman to ride out, stand in front of my car, and say, “Hey, you seen my head?” Just thinking about it gives me the heebie-jeebies.

I usually have to drive through this area when returning at night after one of my government meetings in Cape Vincent, so naturally, I am already a bit on the nervous twitch side. Anyway, so to distract myself, I sing songs, or write nasty letters to my congressman in my head. But, the other night, it was unusually foreboding – the moon peered through dark clouds – the wind howled – leaves swirled and danced their ominous dance – the headless horseman chased my car demanding that I return his head, to which I replied, “I don’t have your stupid head – now give it a rest.” Anyway, it was a dark and stormy night.

So, I sat at the intersection of County Route 12 and Millens Bay Road with my blinker signaling a turn, while I had a conversation with myself.

“Come on Sharie – you can do it. It’s just a road. There is no boogie man out to get you – it’s quicker.”

“Yeah, but that’s a scary road.”

“Oh, come on, you wimp.”

“Hey, don’t call me a wimp.”

“Wimp. Baby. Scaredy-cat.”

“I don’t like you anymore.”

“So.”

“So, so suck your toe, all the way to Mexico.”

“That’s mature.”

“Just drive.”

“Alright,” I said as I made the turn, feeling my pulse throb in my neck. “But if that headless horseman shows up, I’m never talking to you again.”

It began to drizzle, and my headlights tried to pierce through the thick blackness. I kept looking in my rearview mirror to make sure no one wearing a mask and holding a butcher knife was in the back seat, and I sang the Oscar Meyer Weiner song to help me maintain my composure.

“My bologna has a first name . . .” Gulp. “It’s O-S-C-A-R.”

Then, in the scariest place on the road, I slowed down so that I didn’t hit a limb, as leaves jumped around my car. Suddenly, from nowhere, something flung itself on my windshield – two giant eyes and hands with webbed fingers and toes.

“Aaaahhhhh,” I screamed, hitting my brake, throwing my car in neutral, and climbing into the back seat with the guy with the mask and the meat cleaver. “What was that,” I said, curled up in the fetal position in the back seat. I peered through my fingers, to see the monster that stared at me through the windshield.

“Ribbet.”

“It’s just a frog,” I said to myself as I made my way to the front. “Shoo. Get off my windshield,” I said tapping the glass. The frog just continued to look at me. Then, another jumped onto my driver’s side window, then another, and another, and as I watched, frogs surrounded me.

“Hey, get off my windows, you stupid frogs. I just washed them and you are leaving your muddy footprints all over the place.” It was then I looked down to see that there were thousands of frogs in the road, all staring at me, motionless, like a deer in the headlights, only it was frogs – thousands of them. What did they want from me?

Then, my mind began to race. “Do frogs eat flesh? I am sure some frogs do, like piranha, but that is most likely South American frogs – everything there either eats you or is poisonous. Have you ever heard of anyone picked clean by frogs? Don’t think so. Maybe they are just crossing the road and they don’t want anything from you. Or, maybe, this is some kind of sign, like locusts and that first-born thing. Maybe it’s the end of the world. Just drive through them. No. Don’t. You’ll kill them and that’s like seven years bad luck for every frog you schmush. Well, you have to do something. Honk your horn.”

So, I began to honk my horn and shouting. “Get along little froggies. Get off the road before you get turned into frog pattae.” Hoooonnnnkkkk. Hoooonnnnnnk. They continued to stare at me with their beady peepers.

“Darn it all,” I said, opening my car door and tiptoeing around all of the frogs until I stood in front of my car in the headlights. “Move it,” I said waving my arms. “Go on. Get.” They all just looked at me as they sang a five-part harmony chorus of “Ribbet – ribbet – ribbet.”

“Alright then,” I said tiptoeing through the frog minefield back to my car. “You give me no other choice.”

Once in the car, I dialed home on my cellular phone, which I carry with me in case there is a man in the back seat holding a meat cleaver. “Come on. Come on. Answer.” I thought my husband would have some ideas, but no one at home picked up the phone. My mind began to race again. “What if the frog invasion has disrupted communications? What if these weren’t frogs at all but some alien specie disguised as frogs and they are really here to colonize and enslave us – and take over the airwaves so they can broadcast their fiendish plan to space frogs everywhere. What if my husband and daughter have already been assimilated and they are no longer my family, rather, frog-like alien creatures. How would I know the difference? What if they act normal when I get home, but really, they have plans to subdue me and take away the remote. I have to get home before this happens,” I said to myself, panicky. “I have to stop this madness.”

I put the car into first gear and drove precariously through the frog-aliens, honking my horn and trying to dodge each frog as it threw itself in my way. “You can’t have them,” I said to the frogs. “They are my family, and that’s my remote.”

Well, to make a long story short, when I got home, my family was watching television. “You wouldn’t believe this,” I said, short of breath. “But there are thousands of frogs in the road – they are everywhere,” I said, my eyes all wild.

“Yeah,” my daughter said not looking at me. “It’s the rain – it’s pushed them up to dryer ground.”

“So, you haven’t been turned into a frog alien?” I asked her.

“Uh, not lately,” she said, giving me a funny look.

“Prove it.”

“Prove what? How?” she said puzzled.

“Give me the remote.”

Okay, so it doesn’t appear that my family has been taken over by any frog aliens or anything like that, and maybe the frogs were just looking for a place that was high and dry after all the rain. Or, maybe, that’s what they want me to think. Anyway, I’m staying off Millens Bay Road just to play it safe – at least until after Halloween. There’s still that headless horseman guy I have to contend with. Dude, one last time – I don’t have your head.

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