The Perils of Pauline (21 page)

MIA: Missing in action.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

The house is lovely and quiet at 6 a.m., on a Sunday—the perfect lineup for meditating. Michael is always pestering me to learn to still the mind. He claims he can sit with zero thoughts in his head for 30 minutes at a stretch. That doesn’t impress me much. Any man can do that. I’ve seen Donald suppress all brain activity for hours when he’s watching sports on TV. Once in a while a stray thought will cross his mind urging him to get up and grab a bag of peanuts and a cold one. Otherwise, nothing.

For women with children, stopping the mind is more of a challenge. If we shush for five minutes, the house will be on fire and the children thigh deep in the forbidden creek by the time we return from the stillness.

I sit up in a straight-backed lotus position and rest my hands in the open mudra position on my lap. As I rise, George, sleeping at the foot of my bed, wakes up and stretches.

“No George, go back to sleep, not time to get up yet.”

George jumps off the end of the bed and limps over to the bedroom door and scratches the frame. He wants to go out. If I let him outside he’ll probably start barking at the red squirrels eating breakfast at the bird feeder.

“Shhhh, George, go lie down.” George lies down beside the door with a huffy sigh and stuffs his head between his paws to watch me.

Breathe in gently, let those stomach muscles relax, don’t think about how big this makes the belly, breathe out slowly, stop thinking about the belly. I better lay off on the post-game brewskies in the locker room this season. Maybe I don’t have time for hockey this year anyway. I’ve missed the last four practices. This week is going to be a busy week. Tuesday night Michael wants me come out to the spoken word event he’s organizing at the Dingy Cup. Oh yes, and book club is on Wednesday night. And why is George limping anyway? Maybe he needs his nails clipped?

My mind divides evenly into three parallel tracks and, as I consider the fact of book club, I also contemplate the fact that I haven’t arranged the sitter yet for Tuesday night, and when was the last time George got his nails clipped? I can’t call the sitter now, so I better jot it down on my to-do list. Where is my to-do list? An optional fourth track opens up. I didn’t want to join the book club, but Jennifer says it’s essential promotion. I better call the dog groomer today and book George in. Is Tuesday night when the sitter has her violin lessons? It’s the biggest book club in town and they always order their books through us. If I quit the book club, we might lose the business. I better remember to schedule the sitter for Friday night and read at least the first two chapters of the book club book before Tuesday. Wait, Bibi said her sitter can watch Jack and Olympia on Friday night and Shae can take George to the groomer because it is her dog after all and maybe I should just read that book on how to pretend you’ve read a book already.

What’s down for Thursday night? Do I need a sitter for that night too? What should I wear to Michael’s spoken word event? My poet-friendly jacket with the cool buckles is at the cleaners and … oops. I’ve let my mind go off the breath.

I don’t like following the breath anyway. So boring. Maybe I’d be better off with using a mantra. I could try the OM mantra, which, according to Michael, is supposed to bring a balancing and centering quality to daily life. He says OM is the primordial word that most closely resembles the universal breath and has the power to connect me to the vast substratum of the universe.

A substratum sounds like a layer of dirt to me. If we’re talking dirt, I’m already pretty well connected here at home. Obviously those monks who make this stuff up get out way more than me: for sure they never had to vacuum under the refrigerator. Maybe women should say GOO instead of OM.

At this point, I have to go downstairs and retrieve my mind as it has gone off to rest in contemplation of the thick layer of eternal grease that is slabbed in under the stove. Stop it, I shout inwardly. Be still.

Inhale deep silence. On exhalation, think: OMmmmmm. Inhale deep silence. Exhale: OMmmmmm. The OM word sounds like M-o-m. Which makes sense. The universal vibration is creative, maternal. It is both the gentle sigh and wolf howl of the Great Mother. The thought immediately unbalances me as I remember that my Mom, my personal Great Wolfy Mother, is coming over for dinner tonight, and I haven’t passed the vacuum for weeks. Forget GOO and OM, time to deal with TO-DO.

I’m down in the basement throwing in a load of laundry when I hear Mom’s chirrupy voice coming in the door upstairs: “Hellooooo! Helloooooo! Jack, help me with these bags. Watch this one, now, that’s my wine. You can take this one, it’s a vegetable dip; better go put it in the fridge. Hello, Olympia dear, I brought you kids some treats.”

I hurry upstairs to greet her.

“Pauline, what’s the matter with George? He’s limping.”

“His toenails need clipping.”

“Look. He’s scratching. You know, he might have the Red Mange. If I were you I would take him straight to the vet. If you let Mange get out of control, it can cover the whole dog. The hair all falls out eventually and the skin turns red. It never goes away, and it can transfer to humans. You better tie him up outside.”

For the rest of the evening, that’s all she can talk about. That and Barack Obama. She’s got a big thing for him. “There’s an article about him in The Oprah Magazine,” she says while I’m stuffing the chicken.
She fishes the magazine out of her handbag and shows me his picture. “He’s so handsome. He’s like the son I never had.”

Things are getting easier now that I have Jude and Serenity helping in the store, but I’m still a wreck by 9 p.m. each night. That’s usually when Donald calls to say goodnight to the kids. Tonight, Olympia’s gone for a sleepover birthday party and Jack is gone to a show with his friends.

Donald is in a chatty mood. “Head office came out today. They’re really happy how everything is coming along. We’ll be able to launch on deadline.”

“Congratulations.”

I sit on the edge of the bed as he describes his day in detail. The bestseller Bibienne raved about rests on the bedstand. Picking it up, I stroke the spine. The book and my fluffiest pillow are calling.

“How was your day?” Donald suddenly asks.

I tell him how Serenity has turned out to be a wonder worker: “She even straightened out that Johnny Rotten kid. He’s flat out terrified of her.”

There’s a beep on the line. Who could be calling so late?

“Hang on,” I say, “I have another call, and I’m afraid it might be a problem with Olympia at the sleepover.”

I switch over. Uh oh. The caller is Michael. “I finished my dissertation! I have a bottle of champagne with your name on it. Is it cool if I come over for a while?”

I feel a draining sensation in my shoulders like someone pulled a plug from the back of my neck. I’m so tired I could sleep for a week. “Can I call you back? I have Donald on the other line,” I confess.

A long silence ensues. Michael speaks first. “You know, maybe it’s time for you to decide what you really want.”

“Please don’t be mad. This isn’t a good time. I have to go.”

“Wait, wait, hold on. I know … I’m not being fair. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pressure you. I just wanted to tell you my news.”

“I’m sorry too. I mean, wow, your dissertation is done? That’s awesome.”

“It’s a load off my mind. Now all I can think about is you. I bought you a present the other day you know. It’s got five speeds. The sales guy said it’s the taser of vibrators.”

Really? Mmm, taser tingles. I can feel them already. But Donald is on the other line. Tingling with impatience no doubt.

“Be right back,” I say to Michael.

“Hey,” I say to Donald, trying to think of a way to wrap this up quick.

“Is everything okay at the sleepover?”

“Yes, I …” Another beep on the line. This time it’s at Donald’s end.

“Can you wait a minute? I need to take this call,” he says.

Who is he so anxious to talk to at this time of night? Lindsay? I quickly tap back to Michael.

“So where were we?”

Michael is exactly where a girl might want him to be. I’m being tasered before I know it. I can’t believe how charged up a person can get talking about high voltage and direct currents. Michael has such a way with words. The taser has turned into a long-range wireless electro-shock projectile and for some reason the thought of such a device is the most erotic thing I’ve ever imagined. I’m transfixed by the suggestion that one is coming for me right now when another beep comes on the line, and I remember about Donald. I use the Olympia excuse on Michael this time.

Michael says, “Hold that thought and call me back.”

I tap back over and Donald apologizes, “I lost you there.”

“That’s nice. I mean, that’s okay.”

“You sound out of breath.”

“Do I?”

All I can think about is cattle prods. As I end the conversation and hang up the phone, George’s collar jingles. He’s leaning against my leg, vigorously scratching his ear with his back paw.

George has been scratching a lot lately. Maybe Mom is right. Maybe he does have the Red Mange. My head feels itchy and there was a lot of hair in my brush this morning. Oh no.

Forget Michael and his cattle prod. This is an emergency. I run to the computer and google “Red Mange.” 2,600,000 sites. Millions of people are all up on this issue, yet I never heard of this problem before Mom told me about it.

I click on a site. Ewww. Red Mange is a revolting skin disease caused by tiny mites. George is lying on my bare feet. I yank my feet away from him. He’s probably crammed with the creepy, crawly creatures. There’s even a YouTube video. I feel nauseated at the sight of numerous wiggling legs and a worm-like head that features an oversized gobbling mouth-like apparatus. Mom’s right—although cases are rare, the Red Mange can spread to humans. I click on a photo spread of a poor woman who contracted it. She has ugly red lesions all over her face, picked up from her Irish Setter. It was months before she was able to kick the infestation.

Funny. I have an itchy pimple on the back of my neck. And I can’t stop scratching my chin, especially in one spot where I’ve found a small scab. Or a lesion.

There may well be a rapidly exploding population of mangy mites boring holes all over my head right now. Soon all my hair will fall out, my scalp will turn red, and my face will be covered with unsightly lesions. It’s all my fault for not listening to my mother and being a poor manager. Through a disastrous confluence of ignorance and neglect, I’ve let the Red Mange rage out of control through my household. First thing in the morning, I’m going straight to the doctor and George is going to be quarantined at the vet. I better not mention this development to Serenity. The remedy involves dunkings in a toxic bath of insecticides and antibiotics. Unfortunately, she’ll have to put up with her mites and lesions until after the baby is born.

Google is addicting. One horrible mite leads to the next: apparently everyone has eyelash mites, which live and mate and die in the follicles of the eyelashes. According to this site, if I were to pull out an eyelash and place it under a microscope I would probably see one. Or more. The mature adults and maybe even some of the teens have pulled the curtains and are humping away furiously, in my follicles, at this moment. And, as far as I can tell, nobody is doing a thing about this.

I can’t resist taking a peek at the house dust mite. It is related to the arachnid. In other words, my pillow is, apparently, chock full of spiders which are busily defecating and urinating in my pristine, sleepy-time fibers all night long right under my nose. That’s it. Tomorrow I’m treating everyone to a new pillow with impermeable covers.

From here it would be a short hop to search for information on human parasites and lice. Not a good idea since, because of Google, before I hit the sack tonight I will need to swab the entire house, change my sheets, swathe my pillow and mattress with plastic wrap, dip the dog in insecticide and pull out all my eyelashes.

Saturday morning: within minutes of opening the store, a rash of kids come piling through the door for Story Time With Serenity. Johnny Rotten runs straight up to Serenity and dares her to guess what’s inside his backpack.

“A severed hand?”

“Nope.”

“Your baby brother?”

“I don’t have a baby brother.”

“Good thing,” says Serenity. “What’ve you got?”

Johnny unzips the bag, pulls out a plastic margarine tub and pops the lid: “He’s my new pet.”

“No, no, no, whatever it is, don’t let it out,” I shriek.

“No worries.” Serenity shrugs. “It’s only a caterpillar.” All the Story Hour kids crowd around Johnny to poke the caterpillar.

“Don’t squeeze it,” says Serenity. “If you squeeze it, the insides come out and it won’t work anymore.” Then she adds, “I think we should read
The Very Hungry Caterpillar
today.” All the kids shout their approval.

I go into my office to work on my quarterly taxes. I don’t mind the kids nor the taxes as I’m very excited. Michael is taking me out to dinner tonight at the coolest new restaurant in town. Everyone is talking about this place and Bibienne says it’s impossible to get a Saturday night reservation.

We’re taking a chance dining in public but I’m sick of hanging out at the student residence; it feels weird and sophomoric, like everyone knows what we’re up to. I’ve taken to wearing my hoodie and pulling it up around my head and pretending to be all east side as I go in, hands in my pockets, head down and shuffling. Tonight I will lose the hoodie and give him everything he wants.

I meet Michael at the residence and we drive to the restaurant. The waiter delivers tall glasses of cold Chablis to go with our starter, the gingered apple and fennel soup. For my main I’ve chosen the Salmon Tagine while Michael orders the Green Tomato Penne. Funny, I haven’t seen Michael eat meat for months.

“Did you quit eating meat?”

“Yes. Last summer. I told you that months ago.”

“Oh probably. I guess you did. I forgot.”

“You don’t hear half the stuff I tell you.”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed but I have a lot on my plate these days.”