POISED IN SHIFTING DEMOGRAPHICS

What the hell are you looking at? I'm Wonder Woman, dammit!

We wrestled each other with a fury that came from some reserve of vengeance deep inside; both of us holding on with a death grip refusing to yield; the sinews of our muscles straining to keep from giving in to the will of the other. Finally, she yielded, more likely grew bored, and I was able to pry the mail from Bad Dog’s clenched canine jaws. I ran my fist-pumping victory lap around the porch. YES! I AM ALPHA DOG!

          And so this is our daily ritual. Each day when the mail truck parks in front of our house the dog and I race to the porch and jockey for position in front of the mail slot. This must be done for if I’m not there to collect the mail when it comes pouring through the slot then all my bills will be shred into confetti and eaten by Bad Dog, and although there’s nothing more festive than confetti bills, it’s no picnic watching the dog howling to extract them from her intestines at two in the morning or explaining to Time Warner that the dog ate my bill.

          In today's mail there was a promotional give-away box from CVS. I love getting free samples from CVS. What could it be? Shampoo? Hand sanitizer wipes? New hand lotion? I ripped open the box like a kid on Christmas while Bad Dog gnarled and shredded the PSE&G bill before ingesting it. I reached my hand deep inside the box and pulled a clear plastic package that contained…wait a minute. This can’t possibly be meant for me. I checked the box’s address label and sure enough, it was addressed to me. Then I got furious. In my hands was a sample of an adult diaper! Poise for those moments when your bladder just can’t pause.

          WHAT? How do I go from birth control one birthday to adult diapers the next? I was so furious that I actually looked up the phone number for the main headquarters of CVS which I discovered was in Woonsocket, Rhode Island. After suffering through Dante’s Fifth Circle of Hell also known as the automated answering system, my thumb just kept pressing zero until a human voice answered. After airing my complaint I was switched to about three other people until finally I was transferred to a man whom I’m sure was the janitor put up by the rest of the office staff to act like a customer service manager and handle my complaint so they didn’t have to deal with a freak like me.

          “Mam,” he said trying to placate me, “we are so happy that you enjoy our free samples.”

          “No, no; I don’t enjoy this one. I’m not old enough for adult diapers!”

          “They’re not diapers; they’re liners.”

          “Don’t try to spin it on me. I’ve seen the commercials!”

“If you don’t mind, what is your age?”

Reluctantly, I told him.

          “Oh, that explains it. Since your last birthday your demographics have shifted, and that’s why you may be noticing a difference in product samples that are being sent to you.”

          “My demographics have shifted? What does that mean?” I cried. (True, my body has been undergoing seemingly seismic shifts, but that’s none of his business!)

          “It means that for promotional purposes you’re now contained in a group whose needs are more maintenance than restoration, if you will.”

          What?  I missed my own restoration period?

          “Mam, as I’m sure you found with our past samples, not every product is aimed at you—it’s aimed at your demographics. And that group constitutes over 25 years.”

          He was right. Not every free sample was for me like the K-Y Body Gel Tabasco Sauce or the Legg’s all in one thong panties and pantyhose, but at least they were life-affirming. At least they oozed possibility. At least they screamed "DESIRE!" rather than "Oops I crapped my pants!" I mean, am I wrong to suggest that the implication of adult diapers is, “Don’t worry. I’ll do my business right here on line so we won’t be late for that sunset buffet. Here’s a coupon.”

          I hung up the phone, dissatisfied and feeling old. However, to look on the bright side, I would still be considered a trophy wife if I dated at the top of my demographics. (And at this point, I don’t think Jim would even notice.) Anyway, I took the packaged Poise and threw it…well, truth be told I threw it in my purse because frankly there may come a time when I just can’t pause. And at least I’ll be poised.   

BOOT ON GROUND

Motherhood: It's not a job, it's an adventure!

Confession: every morning as I drive the kids to school I pretend I’m a special ops pilot assigned the dangerous mission of dropping fresh bodies into enemy territory. I call this mission: Boots on Ground. Laywoman’s terms: Kids in School Before Late Bell. I play this game not because I harbor any unfulfilled military desires, but because if I succumb to the daily monotony of my life I’d drive my car straight into the red-brick wall of CVS.

          Mornings are awful. My son, Jack, and I, can get out of bed, brush our teeth, wash our face, dress, and be out the door in exactly 12 minutes. We know because we’ve timed it. However, my husband Jim and my daughter Katie are considerably slower. Mornings with them are like being on an acid trip. And I don’t mean a good one. Katie can spend the better part of her day staring at the toothpaste on her toothbrush while Jim stares at his towel as if it’s going to perform the Dance of the Seven Veils for him. And that’s just their first morning task. Times that by the ten others they must perform before they leave the house.

          Breakfast is an exercise in keeping my blood pressure down. While my friend Randi makes her three sons a hardy homemade breakfast every morning, I subscribe to the belief that a little fire in your belly is a good motivator. Jack subscribes to this philosophy, but Katie and Jim have to have their cereal every morning. Katie stares at the little “O’s” of her Cheerios and Jim makes sure he chews 25 times before swallowing each spoonful.  Chew 23 of spoonful #4 is usually when I snap. Jim says hinges open on the top of my head and monsters fly out of my skull. If he only really knew!

         Which brings me to this non-sequitor. I bought Jack a pair of rain boots on-sale at Target for $4.99, but it wasn’t until he put them on one cold, rainy morning that I realized they weren’t a size 5 as the tag read. Some comedian in Target rubber-banded the wrong sizes together. One boot was a size 3 (two sizes too small) and the other was a size 8 (three sizes too big). I didn’t notice this when I purchased them because I was in complete “maniac mode” trying to get out of the store and get the kids from school before they were remanded to the Main Office.

          So here Jack stood before me looking at the uneven feet of his new boots. Our eyes locked in a power-play stare-down. “Just put them on!” I hissed. Obediently, he put them on and didn't say a word. He looked like Quasimodo dragging his size 8 boot and backpack out the front door.  Then over my shoulder I yelled, “KATIE! NOW!!!!” Katie Morticia Adams-ed her way onto the porch. I pulled her coat on, shoved her feet into her boots, and pushed her out the door. She screamed for her umbrella. “MY HAIR!”

          “Don’t worry about your hair!” I yelled. “Just Run, Forrest, Run!” She shoved something into her pocket. As I ran out behind her it felt like my coat was caught. It was Jim holding onto my elbow.

          “What?” I screamed annoyed.

          “I want to give you a kiss good-bye,” he said tenderly.

          “Kiss my…” the final word trailing behind me as I broke free.

          As I burned rubber out of the driveway the clock in the car said we had 4 minutes until the late bell. No problem. I can get across town in 2 minutes!

          As my car squealed around the corner of Fort Lee Road, I illegally pulled up to the fire hydrant five hundred feet from where the third, fourth and fifth grade parents are instructed to drop off children and ordered, “Run, Jack! Run! YOU CAN DO THIS!” He dutifully jumped from the car, but as he hit his stride the size 8 boot flipped off and flew through the air before landing splash into a rogue puddle. I popped my head out of the car window and yelled, “Leave it Jack! Go! Run Buddy, run!!!!” And he did--the toe of his sock flapping from the weight of the water. Meanwhile, Katie casually stepped out of the car and strolled as if she was making her entrance into a garden party with the Queen. That's when I noticed something was off and thought, as she sauntered away from the car,“What the hell is that on her head?"  I groaned when I realized what it was, "Oh, Dear God!” She had somehow managed to smuggle a blue shower cap out of the house and was now wearing it upon her head so her hair wouldn't get wet. I reached down to the floor of the mini-van, grabbed an empty snack-sized Doritos bag and began to breathe into it hoping to ease the pain that was shooting from my arm to my chest.

          When my breathing returned to normal, and my pulse slowed down, I climbed out of the car and waded through the steady stream of rain to retrieve the boot that by now had been sufficiently run over by just about every third, fourth, and fifth grade parent.

Boot on Ground, kids in school, heart-attack avoided. Mission accomplished.