The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank (5 page)

The little freaks were draining our budget, but I bought some of the patterns and was able to satisfy their clothing appetite by sitting at the sewing machine day and night.

Then one day my daughter announced, “Ken and Barbie are getting married.”

It seemed reasonable. After all, they were thrown together day after day in a shoe box under the bed and they were only human.

“What exactly does this mean to me?” I asked.

“Barbie has to have a wedding dress ($10.95) and a trousseau ($36.50) and Ken has to have a tuxedo.”

“What's wrong with his white one?” I asked.

“That's for dancing—not marrying,” she said.

“Anything else?”

“A wedding party.”

“A what!”

“We have to buy Midge and some more people so they'll have people at their wedding.”

“Can't you invite some of your other dolls?”

“Would you want someone at your wedding with bowed legs and diapers?”

The wedding was the social event of the year. Our gift to them was a cardboard house that looked like the Hilton.

It was months before all the bills were in but I figured the worst was over. Some families on the block were just starting with their first doll. All that was behind us now.

Then one afternoon in the kitchen, my daughter said excitedly, “Guess what? Barbie's going to have a baby. You're going to be a grandmother.”

My eyes welled with self-pity as I ticked off the needs—one naked doctor (who played golf on Wednesdays), two naked nurses (who snorkeled on weekends), one ambulance driver in the buff who skied, an unclothed intern who ...

THE GREAT PLASTIC RUSH

“You Will Come to My Home Party”

One day, a typical suburban housewife was storing a leftover in a small, plastic bowl. As she pushed down the center of the lid with her thumb, a whooshing sound came out and her neighbor, who was having coffee, said, 'Did you just belch?"

“Of course not,” she smiled, “I am burping my Suckerware.”

“Burping your Suckerware?”

“Right. I find when you force all the air out of your plastic bowl, your cantaloupe will keep for days in your refrigerator.”

'This was the beginning of the Great Plastic Rush. Within weeks, news had spread throughout the country and the city and women were coming on buses, cars, and bicycles to witness this religious experience.

They did not go home empty handed. The Home Party was born and there was no stopping its growth.

This is how it worked. A housewife, motivated by the promise of a leftover tote bag, would invite twenty of her dearest friends to a party in her home.

Once inside, a professional pitchman would guide the quests to a dining room table laden with wares, and then oil his way through the group with an order form and a ballpoint pen.

No one was forced to go to a home party.

You went out of pure fellowship, need, and unsolicited fear. Fear that when you were tapped to host a party, no one would show up if you didn't go to theirs.

For an added incentive, you played games like “Dessert Bingo” to see how many words you could make out of tlio word “Leftover.”

The plastics were the first to arrive on the suburban scene, but not for long. They were followed by the discovery of Whatever Cookware, Sarah Covet-thy-neighbor Jewelry, One-Size-Fits-All Sportswear, Bow-Wow Cosmetics, and many more.

Probably the most boring party I ever attended was hosted by the Whatever Cookware company. The Burley brothers (two manufacturer's representatives) came to our house early to cook the entire dinner in their pots that locked in flavor and held captive all the natural juices.

The natural juices weren't the only thing held captive. As we sat around drinking celery cocktails I turned to my husband and asked, “So, whatya wanta do now?”

“We could check the expiration dates on our driver's licenses.”

“I want to go home,” I said stubbornly.

“You are home,” he said. “What time do these birds serve dinner? I don't smell anything cooking.”

“Of course you can't smell anything. The food is wallowing in its own juices which are locked in under the flavor-sealed lids.”

Finally, one of the Burley brothers announced, “Dinner is served.” That was only the beginning of the pitch. The Burleys were everywhere. At our elbows grinning, “Is that the most delicious roast you have ever put into your mouth? You have permission to talk with your mouth full.”

“How's it going over here, guy? Here, give me your fork. Do you see how I can press it against this Brussels sprout and the juices continue to flow?”

"Don't get up. What do you need? No salt, guy, please. Learn to eat au naturel. The taste buds will adjust to it in

time."

“Do you detect just a hint of mint? Ahh, you are discerning.”

“Eat the jackets!” he commanded one guest who was scooping out his potatoes. “Look at this folks. He's leaving, all the nutrition on his plate.”

Following the dinner, we arranged our chairs into rows and watched a double feature: “The Birth of Grease” and “An Enzyme Visits New York.”

One Thursday night as I was preparing to go to a home hair-coloring party, I got a call from Dollie Sullivan.

“Guess what?” she said excitedly. “I am giving a plant party. Can you come?”

'' What is a plant party?" I asked.

“It's where you bring your sick plants to be healed and in buy new ones. It's really different,” she said and hung up.

I figured, why not?

The plant party attracted a group of people I had never seen before. I had been there only five minutes when someone wanted to go halvsies on a 100-pound bag of manure and a perfect stranger showed me her aphids.

“Girls! Girls!” said the plant representative, “I hate to break this up, but we've got a lot of ground to cover this evening. No pun intended. First, I want to introduce you to my friends.” Gathered around her on little chairs were a half dozen or so potted plants. She began to introduce them one by one. "This is Florence Floribunda, Polly Pothus, Ginny Geranium, Irene Iris, Dorothy Daffodil, and Phyllis Potbound—we'll talk more about Phyllis later.

"Now, before we get to the sickles, I want each of you to answer roll call with your favorite insecticide.

“Very good,” she said when we had finished. “Now you all have an opportunity to find out about how to deal with your sick plants, so if you'll bring them up one at a time, we'll talk about them.”

The first was a woman who was near tears.

“What seems to be the problem?” asked the leader. “They have icky boo boo on the leaves,” she sobbed. “You're not being too scientific, but I know what you mean,” she smiled. “Can all of you see the icky boo boo in the back? In Latin, it's called primus blosis. Its common name is dust. When a leaf is covered with five or six years of dust, it can't breathe. It suffocates.” “What should I do?” asked the woman. “Let's do something gutsy,” she said. “Let's wash it.” (The crowd cheered.)

Next up was a woman whose plant was in the final stages of deterioration. The leaves were ashen and crumpled limply to the floor. The leader studied it carefully. “Do you talk to your plant? Give it encouragement? The will to live? The incentive to grow?”

“I talked to it yesterday,” she said, “but I didn't talk very nice to it. I called it something.”

“What did you call it?” asked the plant lady.

The owner whispered the word in the leader's ear. She too turned ashen and crumpled limply to the floor.

Toward the end of the evening, we were given the opportunity to buy fresh, new plants to refurbish the ones in our homes. I chose a beautiful split-leaf philodendron with shiny, green leaves in a pot of mulch fluffed up at its feet like a pillow. That night as I paced the floor with the plant over my shoulder I patted it gently and thought, “What the heck. It beats burping Suckerware.”

HAZARDS OF SUBURBAN LIVING

The Car Pool Crouch

A lot of my neighbors suffered from the Car Pool Crouch. It was one of those dreaded diseases you say can never happcn to you.

Then one afternoon when you are attending a tea, someone will point out that your knees are apart and your right foot is extended out in an accelerator position. Your elbows are bent slightly and you are holding your purse in front of you like a steering wheel. When a woman leans forward next to you, your arm automatically goes out to catch her when she hits the windshield that isn't there.

You've got it. The Car Pool Crouch.

I have seen perfectly healthy, young, upright women climb into a car in September. By spring, they walked like Groucho Marx.

Out of this malady came the invention of the drive-in. A lot of people think the drive-in was born out of convenience. That's not true. It was born out of desperation of a community of women who could no longer get in and out of their cars.

I once went for an entire week behind the wheel of the car and never missed a beat running my house.

I drove the children to school, idling my motor as they tumbled out of the back seat.

Then it was on to the bank where I pulled in to within inches of the window, slid my check under a bean bag in the drawer, and massaged my legs as I waited.

With money by my side, I next pulled into the cleaners where I left off a bundle and was rewarded with hangers full of clean ones.

At the film service drive-in, I barely had to slow down the car. Just make a hook shot and promise to be back by tomorrow.

At the service station, I sat numbly while he checked my oil, my water, and cleaned off my glasses.

Then it was lunchtime and into a drive-in eatery for a quick bite.

Positioning my wheels on the pulley, I sat in my car while I went through the car wash, feeling just a little uncomfortable with the numbness that was causing shooting back pains.

But there was the post office that had to be driven through and then it was time to pick up the children.

Naturally, we drove to a drive-in for a slushee treat and as dusk was approaching, we hit for a drive-in movie.

On the seventh day, my husband said, “Look, you've been in that car all week. You're pale. You need fresh air. You are also very short. Let's go to that new church everyone is talking about over on Rural Road.”

I dressed carefully. And painfully. It had been a long time.

Hesitating, I climbed into the car. It was a drive-in church.

As I sat listening to the voice of the minister on the speaker, I heard him say, “This is the time to pray for any special favors you might wish from God.”

I opened my door and with great effort, pushed my legs out. Steadying myself, I grabbed onto the car with my hands and pulled myself up to my feet. I was standing.

From the other cars, I heard the applause, the voices raised in awe. Some blew their horns. “It's a miracle ... a miracle!”

The Neighborhood Nomad

My husband put down his paper at breakfast one morning and said, “How many children do we have?”

“Three,” I answered quickly.

“Then how come we have four children at breakfast every morning and at dinner each evening?”

I put down the cereal box and studied each one carefully. There was no mistaking the one boy. He had my husband's eyes and the girl definitely had my coloring. Hut the other two could have been phoned in.

“There's only one way to settle it,” said my husband. “Will the real Bombecks please stand up.”

They exchanged sheepish glances, a chair scraped, one started to get up, then sat down and finally, three got to their feet.

We all looked at Kenny who sat there staring at a piece of dry toast.

“Son of a gun,” said my husband, “I didn't know Kenny wasn't ours. And I just apologized to him yesterday for not spending more time with him.”

“How do you think I feel?” I snarled. “I just got him toilet trained!”

When we pressed for details, it seems a little over a year ago, Kenny had wandered into our house to use the bathroom, liked it, and sorta hung around.

“How did you know where our bathroom was?” I asked.

“You have the Pee Wee model just like ours—only with a fireplace. I like a fireplace.”

“Doesn't your mother worry about you?” I asked.

“She knows where I am.”

“I think I met her. We both went to your parent-teacher conference. At the time I thought she was being a little pushy when she wanted to see your attendance record.”

I went to the phone and dialed Kenny's mother. “Mrs. Wick,” I said, “I am bringing Kenny home.”

“Who?” she asked.

“Kenny,your son.”

“Has he been acting up?” she asked.

“No, I just feel Kenny has been with us too long.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because my husband and I just realized we postponed our vacation because we couldn't get anyone to sit with Kenny.”

“I understand,” she said.

Kenny was right. Their house plan was identical to ours with the exception of a driveway lamp [extra) and colored bathroom fixtures (also extra).

I couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt as I watched Mrs. Wick bustle around with her brood. No wonder she hadn't missed Kenny. The house was crawling with children.

“Joey, you turn off that garden hose this minute. It's making spots on the TV picture tube.”

“Leroy did what in the swimming pool?”

“Celia! Get your sister off that sofa in that wet diaper.”

“Who wanted the peanut butter and catsup sandwich? It's ready.”

“Ann, get the phone and tell whoever it is I've run away from home.”

“Shut the door!”

“Now you've done it. You've swallowed your space maintainer in your bubble gum.”

“When you put meal worms in the refrigerator, Dan, kindly mark them 'meal worms.' Labeling them 'cole slaw' is not funny.”

“Roger. I want to talk with you. Sit down. I've had it with you. You tease the younger kids. You hog all the toys. You refuse to take naps. Mr. Wick and I had a talk about you just last night. If you don't shape up, we're going to send you home to live, do you understand?”

I breathed a sigh of relief, “Thank goodness. Do you realize that for a moment, I thought all of these children were yours?”

Mrs. Wick looked at me numbly, “None of them are mine. Kenny is an only child. Some of these children are lost, strayed, or just plain bored at home. They wander in and just sorta blend with the surroundings. Kenny just said to me one day, 'I hate crowds' and wandered off to your house.”

“How did you know where he was?” I asked.

She shrugged, “Saw him pictured with your family on your Christmas card.”

“How do things get so confused?” I mused. “I don't know,” she said tiredly, “you just wake up in the morning and mechanically feed anyone who's at the table and you get so busy with the door opening and shutting and little people wandering in and out and water lights and—excuse me (she leaned over to hear a toddler whisper something in her ear). It seems your son, Bruce, just locked himself in my bathroom. Do you want to talk to him?”

“My son, Bruce? What's he doing here?”

“He's been coming every day since Christmas. It seems Kenny got a fleet of heavy-duty trucks and Bruce is crazy for them. If you want to leave him here, we could use the exemption on our income tax.”

“No, I'll take him home,” I said.

Later, I lifted the phone to call my husband. “Hey, guess who's coming to dinner? Remember the little kid who looks like your mother?”

The Elusive Washer Repairman

Every woman in the suburbs had a picture of a washer repairman in her billfold and a telephone number. If, at any time, she spotted one, she was to report it to a central office where they recorded the sighting and tried to track him down. The fast-talking-elusive-repairman was an endangered species. Only five had been sighted in the suburbs during a five-year period.

We had all heard their voices. They said essentially the same thing, “I have you down for Tuesday.” What we didn't know was (a) Who was I? (b) Where is down? and (c) What Tuesday?

But like fools, we waited. Every Tuesday, the streets were barren. Cars stood idle in the driveway. Doors were ajar. Some housewives sat on the curb in anticipation of the arrival of the washer repairman.

My washer had been broken for three weeks when I could stand it no longer. I called the washer repair service and said, “I demand you send me a washer repairman.”

“Where do you live?” he asked mechanically.

“In Suburbian Gems.”

“Our serviceman is probably lost. The houses all look alike to us. He'll get to you.”

“When?”

“Look, lady, some people have been waiting longer than you and are desperate.”

“Do you know what desperate is?” I asked evenly. “Desperate is sending your kids to school in underwear made from broiler foil. Desperate is washing sheets in a double boiler. Don't you understand? I need a repairman.”

“I have you down for Tuesday,” he said.

On Tuesday, I was talking in the yard with Helen when suddenly, a few streets away I got a glimpse of a black leather bow tie.

“It's him,” I shouted excitedly.

“What are you talking about?” asked Helen.

“A washer repairman. I saw my first washer repairman.” I ran to the house to get the picture. “That's him all right,” I said smugly. "Blue shirt, black leather bow tie, dark trousers, and a cap with a bill on it. You phone it in. I'm going over and collar him.

“I can't believe it,” I said. “A real, live washer repairman right here in my kitchen. Would you mind if I called my neighbor, Helen? She's never seen a washer repairman and she wouldn't spread it around, honest.”

“What's wrong with the machine?” he asked gruffly.

“It won't work.”

“Anything else?”

“That's it.”

“And for that you called me?” He removed the front panel and at that moment started to speak in tongues.

“Your rump bump is nad. Can't pft the snock without trickin the snear.”

“That's easy for you to say,” I said, “but what's wrong with it?”

“I sad the roughing won't nit sowse you can't snapf the lig if the ffag won't chort.”

“That bad?”

“Bad enough to need a raunch ring sloop.”

“Is that why it won't spin?” I asked.

“No, the krincop broke and mital values stoffed to the well ham made it groin.”

I felt like I was talking to Professor Corey with a lip full of Novocaine.

“Could you speak a bit more slowly?”

“How old is the zoinc spring?”

“Oh, the machine is three years old.”

His eyes rolled back in his head and he shrugged his shoulders, “Whatya smag?”

“Will it live?”

“With a new thircon tube and a blowfest.”

“Sir, could you possibly translate all that for me in a simple sentence that I could tell my husband?”

He stood up, wiped grease off his hands and in a voice that would have put Rex Harrison out of work announced, “Seventy-four dollars and thirty-four cents.”

“Well, I suppose it will have to be fixed,” I shrugged.

“Can't. Your fasack box is a 19689 model.”

“Is that bad?”

“It's a discontinued fasack box. Used 'em only two months. When the smiax csble ghotend the galopian tube, it congested the tubular laxenspiel and the overflowed hose kinked and someone screwed up and FIRE!”

“Let me get this straight. Are you telling me my fasack box catches fire?”

“What's a fasack box?” he asked.

“Whatever my 19689 model is. Are you telling me it's unsafe and I'll have to get a new machine? Well, I won't pay for it.”

“Rapf your warranty, lady,” he shrugged.

“Where is my warranty?”

“Printed on the bottom side of the washer.”

After the washer repairman left, I discovered I had become an instant celebrity. Women all over the neighborhood piled in to ask questions about what a washer repairman looked like.

“I don't see why you didn't just lock the door and keep him here,” said Helen.

“Some things are meant to be free,” I said.

Trick or Treat. . . Sweetheart

Halloween was my sixteenth favorite holiday.

It rated somewhere between the April 15th Income Tax deadline, and a New Year's eve without a baby sitter.

My husband and I readied for Beggar's Night a full week before. We stored the lawn furniture, brought the garden hose indoors, hid the clothesline and clothes posts, and dragged the Junglegym set into the garage for safe-keeping.

When we lived in the city, Halloween had been a night for little people to dress up as witches and little clowns, knock timidly at your door, and wait to be identified before you dropped a gingersnap into their little bags.

In the suburbs, Halloween wasn't a holiday. It was a full-scale invasion. Car pools transported herds of children from one plat to another (planes and buses deposited children from as far as three counties away). Greed stations were set up where loot could be emptied and they could start out “fresh.” And the beggars themselves were so intimidating that if your “treat” wasn't acceptable you could conceivably lose your health through pain.

The small children usually came between 5 and 5:30 p.m. while it was still daylight. After that the beggars got bigger, the costumes less colorful, and the demands more aggressive.

Opening the door, I confronted a lad over six feet tall, wearing a mustache, and carrying a shopping bag.

“My goodness,” I cooed, “and what's your name?”

“^Que?” he shrugged.

“Do I know you?” I asked reaching up to tweak his mustache. The mustache was connected to his face by his own hair.

His partner nudged him. “^Cual es su nombre?”

“Manuel,” he answered hesitantly. (Good grief, these had come all the way across the border for a bag of caramel corn.)

Next at the door was a twenty-seven-year-old or so wearing a dirty T-shirt, a leather band across his forehead, carrying a pillow case filled with ten-cent candy bars.

“Let's see,” I mused, “you are too old for my insurance man and too big for King Kong. I give up.”