A Marriage Just isn't a Marriage without the Tangy Zip of Miracle Whip

My husband James and I tend to agree on most things. We’re just sickening that way. Before marriage we had the tough conversations, the ones on the “must discuss list” according to relationship experts like Dr. Phil and Father Guido Sarducci. We talked about family finances, child bearing and discipline. We discussed politics, careers, cooking, toilet seat positioning, light bulb wattage, snoring and cover stealing protocol. We covered it all.

Through frequent and exhaustive communication, James and I have become as compatible as…..as…I’ll have to get back to you. However, last night, as we lay in bed, watching Fox News and having a mutual admiration society meeting, the granite foundation of our marriage began to crumble. Oh, the horror! The origin of this destructive fault was…of all things, mayonnaise. Not ketchup. Not honey mustard dressing. Not even wasabi. It was mayonnaise.

It all started innocently, just as Greta van Susteren finished torturing Barney Frank and broke for commercial, I said, “Honey, I think I’ll make a turkey sandwich. Would you like half?”

“Yes, Love Kitten, that’d be great!” replied James.

As I patted his leg and began walking away, he added, “but can you make mine with regular mayonnaise? I can’t stand that Miracle Whip crap.”

“WHAT!?!?” My disbelief morphed into shock, which quickly turned into outrage. All these years I’d used Miracle Whip in every potato salad, pasta salad, deviled egg, pimento cheese, and not to mention the 23,547 sandwiches assembled throughout the course of our marriage.

Growing up in a militaristic household where my parents controlled every thought and morsel of food we kids were fed, I became a bit of a renegade upon moving out on my own. Having watched enough TV in my younger years, I was all too familiar with the slogan “a sandwich just isn’t a sandwich without the tangy zip….” Therefore, my first rebellious adult act was to throw out the Hellmann’s mayonnaise and replace it with Miracle Whip. My parents were stunned, refusing to speak to me at holiday gatherings and NRA meetings. I never wavered from my decision.
“How DARE YOU utter such blasphemy!? We don’t even have any mayonnaise,” I barked, throwing the remote control at James’ head.

“Yes, we do. I bought some Best Foods last week at Kroger,” he replied calmly.

Secretly harboring traitorous feelings toward my condiment choices and then going on covert grocery shopping trips? It was all too much. He might as well have said, “Honey, before we get intimate tonight, I just want you to know that I really prefer your sister. I hope you don’t mind, she’s waiting in the bathroom to replace you in bed.”

“Never mind what this is going to do to our marriage. Let’s get something straight here, Mr. I Let Condiments Come Between My Wife and Me…. there is NO Best Foods mayonnaise in Georgia. It’s Hellmann’s here. It’s Best Foods in California. I don’t know why. If you’re going to cheat on Miracle Whip, you need to call your new fling by the correct name.

The night ended with no turkey sandwiches being made. No intimacy enjoyed. All I could do was lie in the dark thinking about my legal options …just in case James had any other late night confessions involving salad dressing or pickle relish or my sister or anyone’s sister.

He says his feelings haven’t changed for me, that he loves me more today than yesterday, just like the Spiral Staircase song. Yet, I feel a hairline fracture growing between us that could one day become a continental divide.

It all makes sense, really. I remember my grandmother sitting in her rocker, her teeth positioned in her lap next to her snuff can. “Honey, it ain’t the big things that can break up a marriage. Your paw and I, we stayed strong through losing children, crops and all our savings. It’s the little things that tear you apart every time.”

My 84 year old grandfather had just left her for a platinum blond 40 years his junior. He claimed it was because he and “Riffi” both used Listerine and Grandma used Scope. But we all knew there was more to it than oral hygiene product preferences.

Today, things seem perfectly normal. But I can’t afford to let my guard down yet.

A Chip Off the Old Munk

Today started out as an ordinary Tuesday. I hit the snooze alarm 27 times before jumping out of bed wailing like a siren that we were going to be late for school and therefore the world would soon come crashing down around us. Andrew, my super organized, level-headed, (what end of the gene pool did this kid come from) child got up, methodically packed his lunch, ate breakfast, washed his dishes and experimented with six different manly scents of body spray while I clunked around the house wearing one shoe and searching in vain for its mate. Andrew, of course, found it under the couch and gave me a lecture about footwear organization.

After returning home from my Northwest Laurens Elementary carpool duties, I had 12 minutes to eat breakfast, get Jack dressed for preschool, feed the dogs and save the world from impending manic mommyhood drama. I was determined that I wouldn't be late for work again this morning. And I wouldn't have been, had a certain chipmunk not entered the picture. Well, he didn't actually enter the picture. He died there.

Anakin, my fluffy, good for nothing, metro-sexual tabby-siamese apparently decided to go hunting this morning. Being an anally meticulous cat, Anakin never draws blood, or even leaves visible puncture wounds on his victims. I regularly find sparrows, squirrels, moles and meter readers lying peacefully in the front yard, as if they're simply comatose or acting in a murder-mystery. That was the case with today's victim.

As Jack and I walked out to the car to leave the house....on time, just as I was about to say "hop in, Sport," he spied it. The perfectly preserved body of Chip or Dale or one of their cousins, resting on the driveway. Anakin sat in the flowerbed surveying his kill and methodically bathing his right paw. "Mommy!" Jack cried as he ran over to the rodent. "I know what I can bring to school for show and tell!"

"Whew I thought you were going to scream and cry about the injustice of killing a poor woodland creature in cold blood," I said.

"This is the coolest thing ever! Lets put him in a bag and take him to Miss Alicia's class," suggested Jack.

Trying to redirect his attention to a better idea, one that wouldn't get us kicked out of First Methodist Preschool, I said, "why don't you bring your new Matchbox car. That's cool. Right?"

To this Jack stomped his foot, crossed his arms and said. "If the chipmunk doesn't go to school. Then I'm not going either."

Just as I was about to explain that kids don't bring dead animals to class. I mean, maybe some do, like on National Taxidermy day. But the average preschool child doesn't walk into class swinging a freshly dead chipmunk by its tail. However, the words never left my mouth, because growing inside my brain at a rate I couldn't control was the morbid curiosity of what would happen were Jack to nonchalantly hand Miss Alicia his jacket and backpack and say "Oh, by the way, this little prize is for you." Would she scream? Would she say "hey kids, looky what Jack brought! He always shares the neatest things." I had to know.

Standing there looking into Jack's pleading eyes and praying for morsel of common sense, I caved in and said "Okay, Hon. Let me just get a plastic bag and the salad tongs and I'll be right out."

Grabbing the chipmunk by its tail proved very difficult. It slipped from the tongs' grasp, hitting the pavement about seven times before landing in the bag, and was no longer a perfect speciman. On the way to Jack's preschool he bounced in his seat with excitement. I questioned my sanity. The chipmunk just lay in his bag not saying a word.

As we entered the preschool, Jack raced ahead of me. Saying "hurry Mom, c'mon!" A little voice in my head, that sounded exactly like the fish in Dr. Seuss's Cat and the Hat, was arguing points like "this is the kind of thing that gets reported to the Department of Family and Child Services. People are going to think you're some kind of sick mom who lets her small child play with dead, disease carrying rodents..and doesn't even use hand sanitizer."

When I walked through Miss Alicia's door, a few students scampered over to see. As I opened the bag, I thought "what if some parent calls the school and complains about that whack job Weight lady and her decomposing varmant freak show." At the last minute, just as I was about to forever be the world's coolest mom, I chickened out, telling Alicia that indeed we had a dead chipmunk in the bag, but it probably wasn't the best idea to pass it around. She took a quick peek and thanked me for sharing it, in the same tone she'd use to thank someone for having constant gas in her presense. Jacqueline, her assistant, a very British woman proned to having spells, ran from the room as if the chipmunk were a rabid viper and lunging for her neck. Alicia gave me the evil eye and tried to get the kids back involved in their coloring pages.

Leaving Jack's classroom, I ran into Mindy, a pretentious, and particularly snotty mom who has perfect clothing and highlights. I hate running into Mindy. She peppers all of her conversation with disdain. "What's in the bag there, Angela?" she asked. I could imagine Dublin's rumor mill spinning out of control as she called all the other perfect mommies to announce that she finally had enough evidence to kick me out Tuesday Morning Bible Study. "Can you believe she was carrying around a dead RAT in her handbag. OMG. That's just insane! I bet her handbag came from Walmart too. OMG.

Mom Unfit to Play Easter Bunny

If you're under 13, log off now and go clean your room or watch reruns of iCarly or pester a a parent. Now SCRAM!

I'm a lousy mother. It's official. My union membership card and ID badge will be delivered via USPS early next week. If you log onto http://www.lousymoms.com/, you'll see my picture and bio between Joan Crawford and Britney Spears. No, I've never physically abused my kids. I tend not to neglect them. I feed and clothe them, educate them about finances and Jesus, hug them and tell them I love them several times a day. I put up with their never-ending whining diatribes, tack their artwork all over my walls and actively participate in the darndest converations about Wookies, Darth Maul and Jango Fett. On paper, I sound like a normal B+ kind of mom.

Tonight, however, changes my status in the record books forever. There is no turning back and it's all because I fail to plan ahead at some of the worst times. Tomorrow is Easter morning. While children all over the Christian world will be waking up to pleasant surprises of candy and trinkets left for them by a certain benevolent, world-traveling woodland creature, my kids will not wake up to gifts or chocolate bunnies, or Peeps, or fake grass, but only a couple of peanut butter eggs, grabbed by their no-good parents at Publix at the last second. There were actually six candy eggs in all, but James and I ate two, leaving two for each boy and adding insult to injury.

I didn't want to buy Andrew and Jack Easter candy because they receive way too much candy daily from every authority figure they know. Today's teachers reward kids for not dying while on their watch. "Look, Mommy, here are the Skittles I got for breathing." The dental backlash will be terrible, but I can't think about that now.

(This statement doesn't really fit anywhere, but needs to be said. We've lost the real meaning of Easter. Maybe it's time to get back to the cross and empty tomb and Jesus's sacrifice for our salvation. Okay, statement over.)

I wanted to buy them something sensible. Not like socks or underwear but something they'd been needing, wanting for a long time. Jack needs a new bike really badly and Andrew has had his eye on the new Super Mario Bros game. (They haven't had anything new since Christmas, so I didn't mind splurging just a tad on Easter.) The Dublin Wal-Mart was out of Mario and all his relatives and had no boys' bikes at all. No one who works there cares. This is a store built with 30 checkouts, yet has only three open with 37 people in each line at any give hour. It reminds me of those grainly black and white videos of Soviet bread lines.

Since I knew we'd be at Tybee over Easter, I'd just run out to the Wilmington Wal-Mart Saturday night and pick up their treats then. It has only 12 checkouts, but four are continuously open, more reminiscent of a Khazakstanian mutton line, slightly more progressive than the former USSR. Why, oh why did I wait until Saturday night? Why did I naively, stupidly assume that both the bike and the Wii game would be there waiting for me?

I'm sure by now you've figured out that my shopping trip was not a success. It ended with much cursing and gnashing of teeth, like Dante's Divine Comedy without the fire. Wilmington Wal-Mart didn't have Super Mario Brothers or fathers, or ex-step sisters, or former college roommates. (We just decided to give Andrew a some money compliments of E Bunny.) They did, however, have our chosen bike. It was outside in front of the store connected by steel cable to 873 other bikes ranging in size and price with names like Mongoose, Trixter, Dirt Skid and Street Diva. James and I waited and waited and waited for someone to come out and unlock the black and red dirt bike model for Jack. By the time Assistant Manager Craig arrived on the scene, it was 9 PM and my 16-hour deodorant had clocked out and gome home.

Craig was a friendly, 40-ish balding guy with just a hint of sliminess and a keychain that contained 560 keys from his past life as a car thief. He tried the first key in the lock. Nothing. Second. Nothing. Third. Nothing. Fourth. Fifth. Sixth. Seventeenth, Twenty-ninth, Eighty-fourth, Five Hundred Sixtieth. Still Nothing. I began to mutter complaints of life being unfair. James asked to no one in particular "are we having fun yet?"20 minutes of unlocking failure passed before Craig finally called the store manager, Velma to the scene. After his third attempt to radio her, Velma, all 400 pounds of her, emerged smelling of barbecued ribs, with sauce smeared on her cheek and a dirty napkin wadded in her hand. I thought I recognized her from a recent TLC program, Supersized and Pregnant.

As Velma squatted down to unlock the cable, I felt the Earth's tectonic plates shift. In no hurry whatsoever, she tried key number one... two..... four.... nine...twelve. Thirteen was a charm, the first time it'd ever been lucky in its entire life as a number. "YAY," I shouted. James pumped his fist in the air with a resounding "Yes! Now we're getting somewhere." Craig stood distracted, cleaning his fingernails with a Hyundai key.

When Velma tugged to free the cable, she yanked a little too hard. The Mongoose fell into the Rally Rider, which in turn tumbled into the Trixter, which set off a chain. We all watched as the bikes, like dominoes, crashed sideways onto their neighbors. 15 more minutes went by while we dug through the chaos to pull out Jack's Huffy, the only one they had of that model.

As our saga wound to a close, James began rolling the prize we'd fought for with patience and perseverance toward the checkouts. That's when I noticed that its back tire was flat as a pancake. A bitter, incredulous laugh escaped as I pointed out the malady. Upon examination, we found that the rim was bent and the tire didn't fit it properly and would never hold air. As if on cue, we both threw up our hands and walked away, leaving the rejected little bike alone on the sidewalk.

That's when we walked over to Publix and purchased the last six pieces of Easter candy in the store. "I feel like a failure. What are the kids going to think in the morning?" I moaned. James, always the practical one, responded "Isn't it enough that you gave birth to them, and feed them every day and they're disease free and not sitting in refugee camps or sold into slavery. Have those little ingrates even said 'thank you' for that?"

"I'll remind them tomorrow," I said.

I stopped believing in the Easter Bunny when I was eight years old. It wasn't because my parents felt I was mature enough to let go of my silly attachment to mythical gift-bearing woodland creatures. It was because my mom forgot to go to the store and buy Easter candy. That Saturday night, as she was ironing my Sunday dress, she causually looked over at me, sitting on the couch, watching The Love Boat, and said "Honey, ya know there's no such thing as the Easter Bunny, Right?"

"Uhm, no Mom. I didn't know that. Is there any other life destroying information you want to give me? What about the Tooth Fairy? And Uncle Robin, who's serving a life sentence in the state penetentiary. Is he not real either?"

"Don't be a smart alec, Angela. I forgot to go to the store. But here's a chocolate chip granola bar I found in the pantry. You can pretend it's a chocolate bunny." So I did. Since then, I've had a sentimental attachment to granola bars and anything else made by Quaker Oats for that matter.
I wonder if I'll have a similar conversation with Andrew and Jack tomorrow. God NO! I'll make every excuse in the world for the Easter Bunny's absence. He got stuck in freeway traffic, kidnapped by Somoli pirates, locked up on DUI charges in Downtown Savannah. I'll think of something. Yes, it looks like I've got some 'splainin' to do.