I Lost Everything in the Post-Natal Depression (15 page)

“Tenants Leaving City—Immediate Occupancy.” They don’t tell you the former occupants were a motorcycle gang who left skid marks on the living room floor and used the dumbwaiter for beer cans.

“No Children.” Show me a landlord who will not accept children and I’ll show you a landlord who doesn’t permit squeaky rockers, asthmatic coffeepots, heel plates on your loafers, or flushing after 5
P.M
.

“You’ve got to see it to believe it.” You do and you won’t.

“Priced for quick sale.” Watch out for these, especially if the owners wish to be paid in pesos.

“Southern Charmer. Built in 1732.” The plumbing was built in 1732. The rest was patched up with defense-cabin leftovers.

“Country Living.” Yes, but which one? We once lived in a house so far out of town, we had to get malaria shots.

“Convenient to Stores.” It’s usually over one.

Another pitfall we had to watch out for was neighborhoods. I guess there are some naïve women who think that when you buy a home you consider only its physical features, its distance from good schools, and its convenience to shopping centers.

Rarely do they interview their prospective neighbors until they have an unpleasant experience. When I was first married, I fell into a “bad neighborhood.” I discovered one of my neighbors baked bread. Another was
a size three who did not go into maternity clothes until she was 8½ months. (My stomach was larger than hers when I coughed.) And she dusted her mailbox.

Four years ago I hit it lucky. We bought a house between two cemeteries. But then, how often do those opportunities come along?

That’s why I think it’s a good idea to do a “home study” on a neighborhood before you find yourself in a nest of thin, intelligent, talented, organized mothers, who are also athletic. (If the good Lord had meant for me to play tennis, he would have divided my legs from the hips to the knees.)

Before I buy I always ask them to answer true or false to the following: Ovens with see-through doors should be banned.

Surplus kids should be recycled in the name of ecology.

Christmas tinsel in the rug is a lived-in home.

A small waist makes you tire easily.

A well-balanced meal is boring.

Eliminate clutter. Get rid of your sweeper attachments.

If you have checked true to each of these, I wish you lived in my neighborhood.

We looked at one house and I saw a neighbor out of doors. As we were talking, one of her children came up and asked, “Mom, did you iron my plaid skirt?”

“Of course,” smiled the mother patiently, “it’s hanging in your closet, dear.”

“But are you sure you ironed it?” insisted the child. Her mother nodded. “Okay,” said her daughter. “It’s just that I’m not used to a cold zipper.”

Now there’s a neighbor I could love.

It’s hard to believe that we bought the new house in three days.

Unless your marriage was made in heaven, I do not
recommend it. We have always adhered to a theory that the union of two people was never meant to withstand the punishment of (1) hanging wallpaper together, (2) pruning shrubbery side by side, (3) working as a team on the checkbook, (4) sharing an electric blanket with a single control, (5) spending three rainy days in a camper, or (6) having children ten and a half months apart.

We have just added to this list (7) buying a house. Being extremely efficient, my husband kept a notebook of the dozen or so houses we viewed and at the end of the day in our hotel room, we would go over the day’s crop.

“The one with the woman cleaning the pool was well built,” said my husband.

“The house?”

“No, the woman.”

“Personally,” I said, “I like the house with the meat-loaf in the oven. There’s something about onions.…”

“Was that the one where the owner kept following us around and pointing, ‘This is the bathroom’?”

“Yes, and you were rude to keep shouting,
‘Right.’
I loved the decorator’s house, but it was too small. How old is Junior now?”

“Forget it. He’s only twelve and isn’t even engaged.”

“I liked the one with the basketball hoop,” said a voice.

“Who’s he?” I asked tiredly.

“Our twelve-year-old,” said my husband.

“We’ve got to start narrowing it down,” I sighed.

“Okay, I vote for the house on that deserted dirt road,” he grinned.

My eyes flashed. “You won’t be happy until I have to organize a garbage car pool, will you? Why don’t we get that long ranch house from that adorable woman who had my book on her coffee table?”

“Our furniture wouldn’t fit into that house.”

“Since when does Early Poverty fit
any
house?” I snarled. “Did the house with the vicious dog do anything for you?”

“I couldn’t see much from the car with the windows rolled up,” he said. “Besides I’m thinking we had better give up buying and look for a rental.”

“That tears it,” I snarled. “We look at thirty-one houses in three days, count bathrooms, check out plumbing, interrupt dinners, make pages of notes, and you suggest renting. That’s what you can expect, I guess, from a man whose mother wore a navy blue dress to our wedding.”

“We’ll buy the one with your book on the coffee table.”

I threw my arms around him. “Wonderful. You may have to sleep with the storm windows for a while until we can figure out storage, and if it doesn’t work out, we can always shop for another house.…”

When women’s lib comes out for Equal Colds, I will join it.

I never minded dancing backward … or having buttons on the wrong side of my blouse, or having to ask for a key every time I want to go to a service-station rest-room. But just once I would like to have my cold given the same respect as a man’s cold.

A few weeks ago when my husband had the sniffles, he took his cold to his bed, summoned three medical opinions, insisted I mail the children out of the state, installed a dumbwaiter in his bedroom (me!) and wrote to ABC insisting he would make a great two-part series for “Marcus Welby, M.D.”

Two days ago, I awoke to pain. My head was feverish, my lips cracked. My throat was dry. I was nauseated. Every bone in my body begged to be put to rest. “I do not feel well,” I said to my husband. “In fact, I don’t mean to be dramatic, but think I am dying.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to get dressed?” he asked impatiently, looking at his watch.

“You don’t understand,” I said, “it is pure penance to breathe. My head aches. My eyes feel like round razor blades, and it’s only a matter of minutes before I go to that big utility room in the sky.”

“I feel the same way when I sleep too long in the mornings,” he said.

“But it’s only six-thirty,” I said huskily.

“So, eat a little bacon, hash browns covered with catsup … and where are you going?”

You’ve heard it sisters, now what are we going to do about it?

I propose we initiate federal legislation to make women’s colds legal in all of the fifty states to be protected
under a new law called: Bombeck’s Equal Cold Opportunity Bill.

The bill would provide that women would receive more than fifteen minutes to get over a twenty-four-hour virus.

Under Equal Opportunity, her cold would be granted the right to stay in bed and would be exempt from car pools, kitchen duty, laundry, bowling, and visiting the sick.

Any husband who degrades and taunts his wife’s cold with such remarks as “Maybe it was the pot roast,” or “You’re just bored,” or “If it hangs on till spring you’d better see a doctor,” or “Get on your feet, you’re scaring the children,” will be liable to a fine.

Any husband who mentions bacon and hash brown potatoes to a dying woman would be put away for fifty years … without benefit of trial.

I would also like to see women protected from well-meaning families when you are flat on your back. There is nothing any worse than to lie there looking as sexy as open garbage and have your family get along beautifully.

As Grandma says, “I’ve never seen your house so immaculate. The children are doing a fantastic job. You really should get help when you get home.” (The implications being exactly what you think they are.)

Or a husband who says, “Don’t worry about a thing. Your daughter is an amazing cook. I don’t know where she gets it. Last night we had steak, potatoes, and green beans. Tonight, she’s going to surprise me.”

Or a daughter who chirps, “I love keeping house. Did all the laundry today in an hour. I made the boys clean their own rooms. All you have to do is sit on them.”

Or a son who smiles, “Wow, did we have a day. I had the gang over and they didn’t have to be quiet like when you’re home writing. We really had a blast. We helped Dad clean out your kitchen cabinets.”

Just when it sounds as though you could be replaced
by a recording, your small son whispers, “The dog wet on the bedroom carpet, the hamster died, we spilled beets all over the refrigerator, argued all day Monday, and the green beans were so tough we fed them to the meal worms.”

You know, I’m going to live with that kid in my old age.

I make old age sound like a certainty. I don’t mean to. What with the doctor shortage, you are lucky to get an appointment … especially if you’re new in town.

“Hello,” I said over the phone, “I have just moved into the community and wonder if the doctor could.…”

“I’m sorry,” interrupted the nurse, “but the doctor does not accept any new patients.”

“I’m not really new,” I giggled. “I’m forty-four years old. Some of the parts you can’t even get any more.”

“You do not understand,” she said, without glee in her voice. “The doctor does not take on any more patients.”

I called the Medical Society in the area and in calling the list of numbers she gave me discovered Dr. Frizbee did not work on weekends … or the Friday preceding them; Dr. Coldiron had a phone that was unlisted; Dr. Shuxley could not see me until two days before Thanksgiving, unless I was bleeding profusely and in that event could work me in as an emergency sometime the week of October 10; and Dr. Dlux was home with a cold he couldn’t seem to shake for the last six weeks.

I became as frustrated as Martha Mitchell facing a telephone strike. The idea of getting a doctor became an obsession with me … a game, so to speak.

“Hello there,” I said huskily to one doctor. “This is Joey Heatherton. I have a chest cold.” (Click)

“Hi there. This is Mrs. Arnold Palmer. If you could see me for five minutes, I could take five strokes off your game.” (Click)

“Hi. I wasn’t feeling too well and wondered if you
would consider seeing me if I told you I made house calls.” (Click)

“Hello. I’m an old, rich person and want to leave my fortune to someone to whom I am grateful and has shown me some kind act.” (Click)

“Doctor? Are you wearing your stethoscope? Fine. You’re invited to a come-as-you-are party.” (Click)

Doctors often work sixty hours a week. The golf on Wednesday is a myth. They are bogged down by paper work and hypochondriacs. Few of them want their sons to walk in their shoes.

But the fact remains, I had to lie to get a doctor to see me. I told him I was well and felt wonderful, but just needed a physical for camp.

When I talked with a doctor about the shortage, he said they could possibly alleviate the shortage by releasing medical students into the community. But the real problem was that so many doctors were specializing, it cut down on the number of general practitioners.

I found this to be quite true when I took my cold to Dr. Weazel last week.

“Is it a summer or winter cold?” he asked.

“Summer.”

“Then you’ll want to see my colleague, Dr. Stamp, on the third floor.”

Dr. Stamp’s nurse got out a form and asked, “Where is the location of your summer cold? Head, nose, or chest?”

“Mostly in the nose,” I said. “I can’t seem to breathe.”

“That would be Dr. Alvenaz on the eighth floor.”

“Which nostril,” said Dr. Alvenaz’s nurse.

“Mostly my left.”

“That’s too bad,” she said. “Dr. Flack is out of town. His calls are being handled by a wonderful right-nostril man, Dr. Riggs. He’s down on the fifth floor.”

Dr. Riggs took a look at my left nostril and said, “Do you sneeze a lot?”

“Oh yes,” I said.

“I thought so. We have a great sneeze specialist in the building. Just joined forces with a top fever-blister consultant. They’re on the main floor off the lobby. I think perhaps he can help you.”

Dr. Hack was quite reticent to infringe on Dr. Flack’s left nostril, but he did say he thought he could prescribe a box of nose tissue and a Berlitz record of a German saying, “Gesundheit.”

“I could venture one step further,” he said, “and suggest two aspirins and bed.”

“What kind of bed?” I asked. “Double, rollaway, single, twin, bunk, or trundle.”

“It doesn’t really matter,” he fidgeted.

“And what about the mattress?” I insisted. “Firm, hard, semi-firm, downy soft, or orthopedic?”

“I really don’t think.…”

“And what about the sheets? Cotton, percale, satin, contour, fitted, patterned, floral, pastel, or white. Let’s talk about pillows while I’m here. Should it be duck, down, goose, swan, diseased chicken, what?”