Boys And Their Toys

I shower with Superman.

I've slept with Spiderman, Batman and Ironman and, occasionally - a Camaro. So has my husband. (Shh...don't tell him I told you!) Been doing it for years.

Now, now, don't be pervy - we're not some kind of an alternative couple (not that there's anything wrong with that). I'm talking about our son's toys in the tub, in the bed, on the floor, on the couch, on the steps, and sometimes - the fridge. Poking and prodding us in our feet and our whatnots with their little plastic weapons. (That's what she said!)

The cast of characters has changed over the years, but, like many little guys, my son, 7, has always hauled various tiny playthings around the house. That boy has been clutching a toy since the very moment he could do so. I'm pretty sure one of his sonogram pictures features a Matchbox Car clutched in his little nubbin-hands.

(Hmmm...this explains that metallic-tasting heartburn.)

All this toy togetherness has given me quite an affection for the characters and what they meant to my son's different stages of life.

As a young toddler, he took a liking to Dora the Explorer. He even had a Dora doll. Ask him these days about "Dor-Dor!," as he used to call her, and he'll likely take a swing at you.

Then he will deny this.

Next came a Thomas the Train Engine phase. Sticky little preschool hands pulled me onto the carpet each day, and together my son and I built endless (ENDLESS!) wooden tracks for Thomas and Friends.

These days? He will deny this.

And of course, we had a lengthy "Toy Story" phase, with Buzz, Woody, Jessie, Rex and the rest of the gang scattered hither and yon. The boy carried Woody and especially Buzz dolls, er, action figures everywhere. His favorite outfit for a couple years was a Buzz Lightyear costume, with the words "Danger! Jet Exhaust" printed right on the tush. So appropriate.

Of course, he will deny this.

He's much too cool for any of that now. These days, it's all superheroes, all the time. And I could handle giving away the Dora doll. I'll be able to pack away the now-ignored Thomas Trains for his children. But the "Toy Story" movies hold a special place in Mama Weber's heart, here, because of their sentimental message, and because my daughter loved them, too.

So you can imagine my shock upon seeing this sight on top of our boy's Goodwill give-away pile recently:

That's right. He tried to kick Buzz and Woody, our dear old friends, right to the charity-bag curb.

Oh no he did-n't! Can you believe this?

Listen here, Little Man. I may shower with your Superman, and I might sleep with your Batman and Ironman. But Buzz and Woody still hold my heart, understand? Didn't "Toy Story" 1 and 2 teach you anything? Plastic has feelings too, you know!

Don't you worry, fellow Mommies. I plucked our old friends right out of there.

After all, a girl never leaves a good Woody behind. Even if she also has a Buzz.

Don't Do It, Kid

For the most part, adulthood sucks.

This is what I keep telling my daughter. She, age 13, disagrees with her mother. Oddly enough.

To her, grown-ups live in a land of pocket money, complete freedom and unlimited cell phone minutes. A happy place where shiny new gadgets magically and regularly appear for no reason at all.

A job? Where she'll spend 80 percent of her waking hours and young, healthy years to earn said money, minutes and gadgets? Just a petty detail.

She has so much to look forward to. I mean, the bills, the taxes - exciting stuff. The daily snarl of morning traffic, demanding bosses and impossible deadlines - ah, good times.

Enjoy the wrinkles that criss-cross your face like a broken mirror, and sags and pooches that make bikinis a distant memory. Aches and pains that appear each morning for no apparent reason. And embrace those ten pounds that materialize each year - they're not going anywhere.

But wait, there's more! Don't forget the endless chores and housework. After a ten-hour workday, mounds of laundry, dusty furniture and dirty dishes await. Weekends -what weekends? The grass needs cut, the gutters need cleaned and the toilet needs fixed. Whee!

She and her friends have noticed none of the above, though. To my daughter and most teen girls, growing up equals money, makeup and boys.

I've noticed smeared cosmetics over her freckles, wiped off hastily on the bus ride home. Boys call now, squeaky and nervous and asking for my little girl, who still doesn't legally weigh enough to get out of her car booster seat.

Sweetie? You want to grow up to get the cash, cosmetics and guys. I would, however, enjoy some time in your world. So here's my plan. It's not Take Your Child To Work Day, it's Give Your Child Your Work Day.

Tomorrow, dear, you get up at the butt-crack of dawn. Hop in the car and speed all the way into the city during rush hour. Work ten hours for a paycheck that's already spent at a job you're darn lucky to have.

Scoot back into the car for the evening traffic fray, and arrive home to cook for three people who won't like anything you fix. Supervise homework and baths, fall into bed. Repeat 20-plus years, or until death, whichever comes first.

Meanwhile, I'll live your life. So make sure my breakfast is ready, and don't wake me up too early. Take me to school, where I'll hobnob with my friends until the bell rings, and be sure to pick me up at the bus stop in a warm car.

Fire up the computer so I can instant message my friends all evening, while simultaneously talking on the phone and painting my toenails. Cook only pepperoni pizza or chicken nuggets for dinner, and remember - I tolerate nothing green.

Ha ha, just kidding, kid. You be you for a while longer, I'll be me.. I'll keep my job, belly, wrinkles and cell phone minutes. Keep your booster seat, your innocence and your sweet freckles.

Heck, just yesterday I was changing your diapers. And before you know it, you'll be changing mine.

The Guys At Work

Jesus had his disciples, the president has his advisers and my husband has The Guys at Work.

For him, there are no wiser men, no sager-sages than these workplace whizzes. Aristotle? Ha! Socrates? Scoff. Michelangelo? Come on! We don't need them. Not when we have the astute counsel of Jim, Gary, Bob and Other Bob.

Need to know where to get cheap tires? The Guys at Work say to go to Mr. Tire. Wonder what movie to see this weekend? The Guys at Work have seen them all. Curious which RV to buy? No doubt TGAWs have the answer.

Yes, we are brushed by greatness to know these wonders of worldliness, these wizards of wisdom. They've offered my man advice on everything from child rearing to Christmas
gifts to beef steak.

The phrase ''The Guys at Work said...'' gets an automatic wifely eye roll from me. Not because I disagree with them. In fact, my answers usually match theirs. But the truth isn't the truth until we have the Guys' blessing.

Let's illustrate this scenario with a little dialogue, if you will:

Him: “What movie do you want to see this weekend?”

Me: “Well, I hear “Avatar” is good.”

Silence. Crickets chirp, air molecules stand still.

Fade in, two days later:

Him: “Say, I know - let's see “Avatar” Saturday. The Guys at Work say it's great!”

(Cue the wifely eye-roll.)

If nothing else, at least my agreement with the TGAWs guidance proves that I’m right. I love being right. Don't you? I used to dream of being rich or famous, thin or gorgeous. But I’m old. I’ve given up on those dreams.

And occasionally - just sometimes - I know what I'm talking about. This is because I’ve spent years living single and dirt poor.

You too can become a rocket scientist. All you need is - nothing and no one. With good old-fashioned poverty, you’ll quickly learn the art of creative scrounging. You’ll also learn to do things yourself, because no one else is around to help. Years of lonely financial struggle have given me solid knowledge of 1040 tax forms, toilet plumbing and your basic Ford engine. Far be it from me to withhold all this valuable knowledge from my husband. That would be selfish. I have to share.

Case in point: a while back, we hopped in the Taurus to go out to eat. He turned the key.

Car: Click, click click.
Me: “Sounds like the starter.”
Him (cussing under his breath as we switched cars): “Humph. Maybe.”

Fade in, a few days later.

Me: “Hey, did you find out what’s wrong with the Taurus?”
Him: “The Guys at Work said it's the starter.”

(Cue the wifely eye-roll.)
Me: “Huh. How about that.”

Silence. Crickets chirp, air molecules stand still (again).

And then my husband begrudgingly said Those Words. The Three Little Words every woman longs for:
''You were right.''

The Perpetual Diet - FAIL!

That's it. I quit.

I'm going to go ahead and get fat. Who's with me?

It's time. I've been dieting since puberty, and you know what?

Getting fat anyway.

Eat/don't eat. Diet/don't diet. Junk food/healthy food... doesn't matter.

Getting fat anyway.

The Cabbage Soup diet. The Grapefruit Diet. The Liquid Diet. The Vegetarian Diet. The Atkins Diet. The South Beach Diet. The Alli Pill Diet. The Drive-An-Hour-To-The-Doctor-Who-Prescribes-Questionable-Diet-Pills-Diet.

Guess what?

Getting fat anyway.

Aerobics. Weight training. Yoga. Pilates. Yoga-lates. Walking. Spinning. Running. Swimming.

Come on - all together now...

Getting fat anyway.

Like many folks, I've put up quite a battle of the bulge. I've followed all the advice, all the rules. The scale needle goes nowhere - except up. And the older I get, the fatter I get, and the harder it is to do the things I'm supposed to do. Like move.

I am tired. I am hungry. I am...

Getting fat anyway.

I have a theory about all this (of course I do). My Petrified Bones/Ed Asner theory: We're all slowly turning to stone. Just like Mr. Asner - have you seen or heard that guy lately? Great man, great actor. Looks and sounds like a bag of rocks.

So it goes for all of us. We all morph into rock. Rocks are heavy, and eventually, we are, too.

Our bones turn to stone.

Looking for research to support my genius Ed Asner theory, I came across recent statistics from the CDC stating that 34 percent of adult Americans are obese. The CDC also says that's more than double the percentage of obese adults there were 30 years ago.

The hell? Thirty years ago, nobody - including Ed Asner - gave a flying fart what they ate. We ate bread 30 years ago. We ate pork 30 years ago. We put butter on EVERYTHING 30 years ago.

And, according to the CDC, we were thin...30 years ago.

Well, screw this starving bullcrap! I'll have what they were having.

So, Mr. Asner? Pass the butter. Because I'm...

...getting fat anyway.

Captain George and Technical Support

Here's something you don't want to hear on an airplane:

"Uh, sorry folks. It appears our right engine isn't working."

I had a feeling something like this would happen when our flight attendant introduced our pilot as "Captain George."

Captain George had a distinct hillbilly accent and an overly-friendly attitude. He chatted us up over the intercom as if he were about to buy us a bucket of beer.

Hillbilly, pilot, George, beer - not exactly words that encourage confidence.

So his broken-right-engine intercom announcement didn't surprise me. Luckily, the plane broke down on the runway.

We were supposed to have jetted off for a cruise. Instead, we began our special vacation with this little omen. I turned to my husband.

"Happy Anniversary, honey!" I said.

Good ol' Captain George popped on the intercom again.

"Well, folks, we're on the phone with our mechanics in Florida to see if we can fix the problem, get ya off the ground here as soon as possible..." he said.

The pilot...on the phone...with technical support. In Florida. Nice.

I pictured Captain George, heading out to the engine, his tool in hand, his cell phone to ear, asking the "fellas in Florida" which screw to tighten.

Uh, George? Never mind the tech support.We'd like another plane, thank-you-very-much.

Sigh. Why couldn't it have been the right windshield wiper that had malfunctioned? Maybe a tire? Perhaps a tail-light? We could have dealt with that. No. Had to be the right ENGINE, didn't it.

But we were resigned to our fate, as air travelers are. Because the flight was paid for, and whatnot.

We waited, and waited. And waited some more. Finally, our buddy Captain George told us what would happen next.

"We're gonna get ya off the plane, gonna fly our mechanics from Florida up here, have 'em work on the plane, get ya outta here as soon as possible..." he said.

Apparently Ohio airplane mechanics can't fix airplanes? Yes - much more financially prudent to fly aircraft professionals all the way from Florida than to find one locally...

Still, I knew not to question the wise counsel of Captain George.

We left the plane and returned to the airport. At least it was time to eat. It was damn sure time to drink.

After lunch, the gate attendants told us the plane would "hopefully" be repaired by 6:30 p.m.

"They must have to go to NAPA to get the part," said my husband.

We spent the next six hours - and our 15th wedding anniversary - people-watching the fellow passengers of Flight 007. They were beginning to feel like old friends: a Gretchen Wilson look-alike, Mr. Better-Than-Thou First Class, "Gilley's Bar" ball-cap Grandpa, who smiled a lot when his wife wasn't around.

Even good ol' Captain George eventually joined us at the gate, flipping through a magazine, chill-axin'. This seemed a positive sign that actual mechanics - and not Georges with screwdrivers - were fixing the plane.

Finally, around 6 p.m., the gatekeeper announced that we could re-board the plane. I wasn't thrilled about flying on this jacked-up jet.

But I was happy to go somewhere, anywhere, besides the airport restroom.

I grabbed my carry-on. I admit it - I was still a little nervous, so I crossed my fingers. I wanted to spend eternity with my husband. Not Flight 007 and Captain George.

Grunge Garage: Do Not Judge Me!

He has a dream.

He dreams of a manly place where no kids bug him, no wives nag him and no one needs anything from him. A tidy place where he can keep his tools and possibly park his car.

So it goes, on sporadic Saturdays here in beautiful downtown Brownsville, that my husband heads out to clean ‘his garage.’ He makes a great show of it. Banging and clanging and using the occasional *&%!-word.

That’s because our garage is full of it. Crap, that is. Old bicycles, hobby horses, tires and toys, used stereos, magazines, pop cans and sporting goods. Not to mention three stray cats and their litter-box. If it's smelly, dusty or homeless, I can guaran-dang-tee you it lives in our garage.

On such a Saturday, he generally comes inside to ask questions like this:
Him: Hey. Do you want this (fill-in-the-blank-with-plastic-from-Nixon-administration)?
Me: Yes I want that! I might use it someday!
Him: But Honey, it’s broken. Also, you’re old. You'll hurt yourself.
Me: Well, the kids might want to play with it!
Him: But it’s broken. And the spiders…
Me: Anyway, the memories! And it could be valuable. Keep it till I check Ebay.

Defeated, head down, he slinks away. Closes the garage door, gives up and heads to 'his office' (the bed). Flips on the Military Channel.

He says it's my fault, the mess in the garage.

But here at the Weber Center for Completely Uninformed Social Research (WCCUSR), we have determined that this is indeed not my fault, because I have the female pack rat gene.

This gene causes pack rat women like me to think about, nay, ponder the sadness that will befall the household if Really Important and Necessary Stuff - like baby shoes, Hot Wheels or Veterinarian Barbies end up in the Goodwill bag.

Several of my girlfriends also carry this gene. There's Brenda, who moved three truckloads of antiques and furniture from California to Ohio - all for two people. Marlene regularly fills her garage with unwanted stuff from other folks' garage sales. Another woman I know saved the crayons her son used - 30 years ago.

Perhaps the Queen of my pack rat friends, Sonia has kept the shirt her husband was wearing when she met him, a banana from her honeymoon breakfast (in a baggie) and her babies' belly button stumps (more baggies).

And, true to form, all over the Midwest, our husbands dream of orderly tools and parked cars. Then they scratch their heads, lower the garage door and retire to 'their offices.' Flip on the Military Channel.

Why do pack rat women save this stuff? I mean, besides the fact that it could become valuable on Ebay?

I think it's because time flies by faster than a Walmart bag in the wind. I can't remember what happened last week, let alone ten and 20 years ago, so I need this moldy old crap to remind me. Also, some stuff is just too precious to throw away. It’s just like that old Jim Croce song, the one that goes ''If I could save time in a baggie...''

But it is true: the garage is a mess. A maze of storage boxes, broken bikes and overflowing recycling bins. Even I can't ignore it anymore. It's getting so bad that the three stray cats have reconsidered homelessness.

O.K., O.K., I hear you. One of these days, I'll let my husband have his dream of an organized garage. I will fight my pack rat genes and he can toss some stuff. Yes sir, I'll let him do that. Just as soon as I check it all out on Ebay.

Bum Vacation

I yearned for it.

Walked slowly past, looked longingly, touched lovingly, eyed the price tag, sighed and kept walking.

“You don’t need it,” said the voices in my head. “The one you have is just fine. It looks OK. It will serve you for years to come.”

But still, I lusted, year after year after year. The look of it, the feel of it, the downright luxe of it…

The Padded Toilet Seat.

“Psssst,” it says. “Have a sit-down! Relaaaxxxx…..”

Ahhhh. Nothing like it. It’s a bum-break, a pooper-pamper, a wee (-wee) vacation for the tired tush.

(Not that I would know. I never utilize these things. For I am a Pretty Flower, who never, ever has to use, um, facilities. No, I am only thinking of the family.)

But, like I said, here at the Weber house, we were already the proud owners of a toilet seat. Yeah, we’re wealthy like that.

It was here when we bought the house. From the late 1980s, heavy, dark, oak - purchased in the days of stenciled walls, country-blue geese and Randy Travis.

So I waited. I waited and waited and waited for that ugly oak Randy Travis Toilet Seat to break. Or die. Whatever. The practical Youngstown girl (Another steel mill could close! Or I could lose my job! Again!) in me just couldn’t see replacing a perfectly good, structurally sound shitter-seat with a new one.

Oh, we, er, they gave Randy Travis their best shots over the years - in sickness and in health. Little and big men in the house, lots of slamming up and down, lots of sideways spillage.

I waited 16 years. SIXTEEN YEARS. I gave him the best years of my life, and still, the ugly oak Randy Travis Toilet Seat WOULD NOT BREAK.

This year, I said the hell with it. I simply could not wait anymore. We received our tax return check, and I got crazy.

I went to Walmart, plunked down my $19.41 and walked out with It: a Deluxe, Lovely, Soft, Vinyl, Padded Toilet Seat. Color: Vanilla.

I rushed home, tore out my toolbox and set to work. A simple thing, toilet seat replacement, right?

You'd think so. You'd be wrong. The Randy Travis Toilet Seat wouldn't let go. The corroded bolts had seemingly melted into the very porcelain of the crapper bowl.

I hated to admit it, but I needed some man power. I called my husband.

He grunted, sweated, cussed. Then he got up from his chair to come work on the toilet seat. Grunted, sweated and cussed some more. Randy Travis did not budge.

Oh, I was so close. So close to my dream of pampered poopers for all. (Except for me, of course. Again, Pretty Flower…) What to do?

Then it hit me out of the Tidy Bowl Blue - we’d call our buddy Greg. Dude's a complete genius when it comes to home repair, car repair, any-dang-thing-repair.

Best part? Will work for beer.

It wasn’t long before Greg pulled up, in his magical truck o' tools. I knew now that I was THIS CLOSE to my dream of cushy-seat-softness (Well, the family was close. I’ll never know…)

Greg whipped out his equipment, and tackled Randy Travis, who was really having trouble letting go of the Webers. Seemed he planned on hanging around “Forever and Ever, Amen.”

But he was no match for Greg and his large tool.

And, after a couple of hours of blood, sweat and toilet water, my dream finally came true.

Randy Travis was trashed.

And in his place, in all its comfy, soft, dreamy glory, was the vanilla Padded Toilet Seat. I was in heaven. Think of the peaceful pees! (For the family, I mean, I think only of them...)

We all stood around to admire his work, while Greg mopped Weber sewer water from his brow.
I felt bad for the guy. He was certainly due many, many cases of beer for this odious task.

But, he remained unruffled. He simply shrugged, packed up his toolbox and said:

"You know, I never have liked these things, these soft seats like this. It's like taking a crap on the couch."

Yeah. Thanks, Greg. Thanks a lot.

No beer for YOU!