All the Right Skills in All the Wrong Places

By Amy Mullis

I have one sister to grow plants and one to do crafts.  It’s not that I’m a Diva, I just don’t see a way around that “Police Line - Do Not Cross” tape on my craft box. I don’t know my fertilizer from my fescue or my Popsicle sticks from my pipe cleaners.  I’m not allowed to use a soaker hose or a glue gun without an OSHA representative present.  I have a criminal past when it comes to construction paper.

But sometimes, when the women’s magazines bordering the grocery checkout like sunflowers beckon to me, I push aside that little voice that reminds me of the soccer banner incident.

“Ouch. No need to shove.” The Captain grabbed a Mars bar off the rack as he regained balance.

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

“Well, there aren’t many women who prance around with a soccer banner attached to their crotch.”

“I wasn’t prancing. I was trying to shake it loose.”

“I thought you were angling for a tip.”

“It was attached to my pants.”

“Who could tell?  You were all Soccer Banner through Interpretive Dance.”

“I had a little trouble with the needle and thread.”

“What did it do? Misfire and sew the banner to your shorts?”

“Well at least I’m not the Poster Child for plumbing disasters.”

“Look. ANYBODY can have a toilet where the water goes down.”

“Now I’m afraid of what’s going to come up. That gives a whole new meaning to the words Interpretive Dance.”

“I made one little mistake. You killed a Peace Plant. That started an International Incident that resulted in your mug shot hanging in garden stores around the world.”

“Those things are so needy.  You’d think they could go a few days without water.”

“It was six months.”

“I think those Peace Plants are named wrong.  I’m pretty sure that thing growled at me when I took it out of the trunk.”

The Captain paid the cashier and tore into the candy bar. “By the way, you’re still famous around the soccer fields.  You’re not allowed in without supervision of a responsible child under the age of 17.”

“Cool!  I have an R-17 rating? I guess gardening and sewing are a lot like plumbing. Nobody notices unless you get it wrong.”


Bio:  Amy Mullis lives in upstate South Carolina where she hoards glue sticks and bits of ribbon, and leafs through craft magazines planning for the future.  Her husband, sons, dogs, and cats feel secure knowing that she’ll never find where the pinking shears and glue gun are buried.  Join her for more “Don’t Let This Happen to Me” moments at Mind Over Mullis.  She sends her thanks and love to Stacey Graham, Angie Mansfield and all the Ermas for making life a little bit more exciting for the past two and a half years.

Puppy Love

By Amy Mullis

One sticky summer morning, the kind of day that peaks at dawn when the dew begins to boil and all the oxygen seems to have been sucked out of the atmosphere by a giant turkey baster, the roofers came.  I was frolicking in the back yard with my new puppy playmate, Lucy, a mostly-Dachshund with baby lamb fleece fur and legs the size of paper clips.  Frolicking entailed throwing a ball and then trotting off to fetch it while Lucy watched from a shady spot under a stand of tall pines.

Two large trucks roared into the driveway, chewing up the pavement and spitting out gravel.  The door of the first truck creaked open and out rolled a man who should never wear horizontal stripes.  He scratched his expansive belly, flicked a cigarette aside, and pulled off a black and gold CAT hat to draw a sweaty forearm across his brow.

“We’re here to do your roof,” he drawled with the same tones he might use to announce he was here to organize a Hell’s Angels rally. “I expect we’ll finish up in a couple of days.”

“Fine,” I answered weakly, backing toward the door.  I reached to pick up Lucy who, as a general rule, is particularly demure around strangers, especially big, burly men who look as if they eat Dachshund biscuits for breakfast.  At that moment, however, the door to the second truck opened and deposited a handful of shirtless, sweaty, multi-tattooed bodies in the driveway.

  

Throughout the ages, stories have been told and gently retold of delicate girls who fell prey to the ravages of love when they gave their hearts freely to the wrong man.  Lucy was no different.  She flew across the yard on the wings of puppy love and propelled herself into the crowd.  All were silent for a moment.

“Is that a weasel?” one gentlemen asked, rubbing his belly.

“Naw,” answered his friend.  “It’s a chipmunk.  They’re all over the place around here.”

 

Blushing, I called Lucy.  I waved doggie treats.  She rolled onto her back, offering the opportunity for her new friends to stroke her fuzzy belly.

 

“Look at its feet.”  Harsh laughter.  “Looks like duck feet.”

"Her mother is a purebred Dachshund," I sniffed.

"Who's her daddy, Howard the Duck?"  The group guffawed in unison.

I haven’t seen a group this witty since open mike night down at the Texaco station.

For the next two and a half days Lucy was a roofer groupie.  She greeted them in the morning with wags and woofs.  At lunchtime she joyfully shared their lunch, munching on sandwich crusts and cold fries.  At night she watched them forlornly as they backed over my azaleas and down the drive.  She was a lone wolf about to be fleeced.  She was headed toward heartbreak.

On the third day, it happened.  One last belly rub, one last ear tousled, and the Marlboro men loaded up their spare shingles, hauled their Heinekins into the truck and drove away for good.  The truck jounced down the driveway like Model-T down a cobblestone road.  Lucy sat by the steps, ears drooping and tail at half mast.

It’s the same old story.  A good girl can try to change a bad boy, but he still turns out to be a dog.

Let Me Eat Cake!

By Amy Mullis

Hold me back from chocolate cakes,
Brownies, cookies, nuts, and shakes.
Help me know that if I eat,
My waist will soon obscure my feet.
It shames me some to have to tell
That I weigh on the Richter scale.
So pork chops, have no fear of me;
Roasts and cutlets can run free -
NO! I do not have the will to try it;
I would rather die than diet.

You can sit there if you please,
Eating fruit and cottage cheese.
A celery stalk, a carrot stick:
The vision fairly makes me sick!
As for me, I’ll roast and fry
And feast on pizza, cake, and pie.
I’ll gorge until my zippers bust,
And then remove them if I must.
But til that dreadful day shall be,
I’ll spend my time with Sara Lee.

Join Amy for a lifetime of "Don't let this happen to me" moments on her blog, Mind Over Mullis. Compliments go to Lisa Dovichi for the pictured treats. Lisa could make a gourmet dessert even if macaroni and chocolate milk were the only ingredients available. She's the McGyver of the kitchen set. Paula Deen beware!

Of Captains and Cupcakes

by Amy Mullis

It’s not that I haven’t enjoyed the past fifteen years; it’s just disconcerting to find out that these days my body resembles the neighbor’s back yard: spare parts are piled under the hedges, weeds of various sizes sprout enthusiastically at random intervals, and the screen door flaps like a flock of geese in a high wind.

Fifteen years ago, I was a single Mom with a body young and lithe enough to tie my shoes without having the deductible on my health insurance come into play. Honestly, the money I spent on super-strength Tiger Balm was a total waste of money, until last spring when I discovered that to avoid bending over, I would have to wear slide-in bedroom shoes like the Women of Wal-Mart whenever I go out. That, or I was going to have to pay random passersby to lace up my sneakers.

A decade and half ago, I also discovered that if I was going to get two kids through fourth grade math, I was going to have to marry someone who could figure --without a calculator -- just how fast the train that left Los Angeles was traveling, and when it would overtake the train of thought that derailed when I discovered that, as class mom, I was in charge of cupcakes. These days I just use Google Earth and divide by Facebook, but in those days Social Media amounted to little more than a “Girls Wanted” ad in the personals section of something we called a “newspaper,” math was accomplished on the ten fingers I had available, and neither was any help with the cupcakes.

So almost fifteen years ago, on July 12, I considered all the options and decided it was the perfect time to marry the Captain. There was a time when I thought sticking my hand in a frightened dog’s mouth was a good idea too, but hopefully this plan won’t come back to bite me. Or require stitches. So far it’s smooth sailing. But we keep the vet on speed dial.

I’m different than I was fifteen years ago. I'm slower. Slower to get angry. And I'm heavier. I’m carrying some wonderful memories along with me. But they don't have a parking space near the Pearly Gates reserved for those that are pokey and fat. So, God willing, I’m gathering myself up to forge ahead, full throttle, without thinking whether this 15 year bump in the road will send me soaring into the blue or skidding into a ditch.

Sure, the last fifteen years showed me that the springs may be rusting. They also showed me that the most important thing to remember is that in another fifteen years, the me I am right now is gonna be looking pretty good.

And no one will ever suspect that I ate all the cupcakes.

Which Way is Up?

 By Amy Mullis

I have a terrible sense of direction. My dad, who served his country in the Navy during World War II, considers anyone who can’t tell direction by the stars an underachiever with communist alliances.

 I don’t even know east from west. Dad tried to deport me when I was born just because I got my Poles reversed and slid backwards into the world. I once asked him why, if port meant left, all the portholes weren’t on the left side of the ship. He said I was adopted and began to refer to me as Comrade.

 I’d once recklessly promised the kids I’d take them camping, and since children never forget a promise made while you’re asleep, one summer morning my sisters packed the compact car with snacks from the crinkly-paper-wrapped food groups, handed me a map, and expected to find the campsite while our clothes still fit.

Glancing at the map, I noted that we would be traveling in the direction known to me as “down and a little to the right.” I checked the snack supply, carefully folded the map, and gave the go ahead to proceed.

“Why do you always have to wad up the map like that?” my sister asked lovingly.

“Shut up and drive.” I answered airily. I checked the snacks again. We might need more chocolate.

We were going to a state park in the next town. The whole trip should take less than an hour, mostly by highway.

 By suppertime we had crossed the state line twice, eaten our snacks, and were beginning to eye the remaining Ho Ho like the last chicken leg on the plate at the family reunion. We traveled on roads that still had buffalo tracks. At least once I saw the bleached skull of a steer marking the path.

Sisters are good for a lot of things. Their clothes always look better on you than yours do. Their kids steal straws from fast food restaurants and make random animal sounds to make your kids look like keepers. And sometimes, just when you need it, they will say the stupid thing so you don’t have to.

As we crossed yet another state line in the direction denoted on modern topographical maps as “UP,” my sister peered through the windshield at the sun setting behind a string of dusky mountains designated on the map as “SOMEWHERE ELSE” and said, (I promise she really said this.)

“If we could see it, we could drive to it.” Silence settled in the car. Even the kids stopped kicking the seat and writing their names on the windows in drool. The radio stopped playing. Crickets chirped.

The mountain we were looking for was roughly mountain-sized, festooned with trees and threaded over with rushing streams, all-in-all standard as far as mountains go.

 One child leaned over to the other and whispered confidentially, “If we could see it from two states away, it would be the biggest mountain in the world!”

 “Well, Comrade,” I announced. “The world is round. We can keep going the way we came or we can turn this wagon train around and give it another shot.”

She looked at me and her lips curled back from her teeth.

 I don’t think the map will ever fold correctly again.

Stepping Out

by Amy Mullis

“I do what?”

“A half step. Like a baby step. But with bigger feet.”

The Captain and I are standing face to face in the living room. We’ve decided, after a half century of ignoring choreographed moves, that we should learn the proper way to do the Carolina Shag, the official dance of the South Carolina coast.  Around these parts children learn to Shag before they learn to blame broken dishes on their little brother.

Just now we’re stuck at the most difficult part. Getting started.

“Which direction do we step?”

“I guess toward the beach.”  We are presently five hours and six more weeks of winter away from the shore. We pause and gaze serenely eastward in honor of the ocean.

“What are you doing?” The Captain wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his Jimmy Buffett t-shirt and peers at me.

“I’m gazing eastward.”

“You’re gazing toward the kitchen.  East is the other direction.”

“It’s the thought that counts.”

 “You’re thinking of the cheesecake in the refrigerator.”

“It reminds me of the beach”

“Because it’s round like the sun?”

“Because they both remind me my swimsuit doesn’t fit.”

We observe a moment of silence in honor of the good things in life and traitorous swimwear.

He takes my hand.  “So where were we? Half. . .”

“Step.”

“Okay.”

We immediately step in opposite directions, then back, then smash each other’s toes into the biological equivalent of strawberry jam.  Our arms are locked around us and we’re stuck together like purse-bottom postage stamps. Every time he breathes, my glasses fog up in a half moon shape.

I glare at him through a sliver of light at the bottom of my right lens. “The men on the video were light on their feet.”

He grimaced and limped to a chair.  “I wish you were light on my feet.”

“You need to practice. You’re supposed to look like you’re hovering just above the ground.”

“The last thing I saw hovering was just above swamp level in a bad science fiction movie.”

 “What happened in the movie?”

“The hovering thing got beat up before I got the butter on my popcorn.”

“So you don’t want to learn the Shag?”

“I’d rather line the bed of my truck in taffeta and throw an afternoon tea for the Sugar Tit chapter of the Hell’s Angels.”

“The only motorcycle in town belongs to Old Man Pirkle, the Volunteer Fireman and Assistant Mayor.”

“We could just watch You Tube demos and eat cheesecake.”

“Turn on the laptop. We have six more weeks to buy a swimsuit.”

Join Amy Mullis at Mind Over Mullis for more Don’t Let This Happen to Me Moments.  She lives in a suburb of Sugar Tit, which is possibly the best thing that could happen to a humorist. Cheesecake is her Muse.  

Credit for totally awesome photo to: danceshagcorner.com

Christmas Chaos

by Amy A. Mullis

When the Ghost of Christmas yet to come starts spreading its merry magic around, anything can happen.  One year, the spirit of Snap, Crackle, and Pop possessed me, and with a happy heart and handicapped hands I set about to make Rice Krispie treats.

I’m not sure where I went wrong, but the next day my family strung electrified razor wire around the kitchen door.  Now I can use the refrigerator only when accompanied by a guardian.  The egg compartment is password protected.

I might not bake like Betty Crocker, but I mix like a manic bartender.  Ingredients disappeared into the bowl like bathtub toys down the drain. 

I was elbow-deep in marshmallow crème and crunchy bits when the phone rang.

I looked at the phone.

I looked at the mass of seasonal sweetness glistening in the mixing bowl.

Ring Ring

Surely it was a late night salesman calling with an offer on reindeer rides or antler cleaners.

Ring Ring

Or it could be. . .

Ring Ring

Santa.

I lunged for the phone.

Across the dog napping by my chair.  Across the table.  Across the mixing bowl full of sticky, marshmallow goodness.

Which immediately grabbed my bosom like a Hoover on a hairball.

I squealed and grabbed at the sticky mass stuck to my sweater. My hands stuck tight.

The phone rang forlornly.  Would Santa wait?  I couldn’t take that chance.

I wedged a rubber spatula somewhere a spatula should never go and tried to pry myself loose from the goo.  No luck.  Finally, through the use of my gourmet kitchen superpowers, I pulled a hand free and grabbed the phone.  Crispy Christmas spirit clung to my clothes like a solidified lava flow.

“Hello, Santa?!”

Dial tone.

I sat back to ponder the situation, one hand stuck to my shirt in a modified Pledge of Allegiance salute, the other hand held fast to the telephone.

About that time the Captain came in the back door.  “Why didn’t you answer the phone?  I wanted to ask you about the ingredients for the . . .” 

Here he uttered an oath that he generally reserves for finding that I’ve used the last of the 12-year-old single malt Scotch to pre-soak the socks. It’s not something I did more than once, thinking surely if there were any substance that could take on Carolina Red Clay, it would be the stuff that dissolved my taste buds and disintegrated the lining of my stomach. This attempt was unsuccessful, but lead to a discussion called “We Don’t Use the Good Liquor On The Laundry,” which is my favorite lecture after, “We Don’t Shave Sweaters With My Norelco.”

I looked up at him, Rice Krispie clumps hanging from my sweater like Christmas tree ornaments and marshmallow crème tipping my eyelashes like disco balls. The Labrador dozing at my feet dreaming of sugarplums looked like a Candyland Appaloosa.

That night I discovered the true meaning of Christmas.  When the chips are down and your snap and crackle have lost their pop, a man who will chisel petrified puffed rice out of your navel is worth more than a herd of flying reindeer. 

But these days?  I buy Corn Flakes.

Cart Wheeling

By Amy Mullis

Not long ago, I had a near-death experience in the grocery store.  I was bending over to check out Mrs. Fields’ fat grams when a woman wielding a grocery cart like it was a runaway bumper car rounded the corner on two wheels.  If it weren’t for quick thinking on my part, I might have required a trip to the Crisco aisle to disengage that buggy from my body. 

For a second I thought I saw a bright light, but it turned out to be Register Five calling for assistance.  With that thought in mind, I offer 8 Simple Rules for a Successful Supermarket Experience:

1.                  Show proper care for your vehicle. For the safety of everyone on the floor, do not select a buggy with uncooperative steering that can be guided only by a team of Iditarod sled dogs.  Also, be on the lookout for features that may interrupt the aerodynamics of the cart, such as toddlers left over from a previous shopper.

          

2.                  When perusing different item choices on the supermarket floor, please be sure to park only in traditionally acceptable parking areas.  Nobody cares if you set up camp in front of internal organs in the meat department, but if you pause to check the fat content in the cookie aisle, we will forcibly transport you to the dairy case and secure you to the yogurt section with string cheese.

3.                  Please observe crowd-friendly speed limits.  I know you’re in a hurry to rush home and get those tacos on the table, but don’t careen around the corners so fast that you initiate an awkward meeting between Betty Crocker and Orville Redenbacher.

4.                  Practice defensive shopping.  You must understand that if you stop in the middle of the aisle while trying to decide between creamy and crunchy, you may end up in a jam.

5.                  Please show concern for the safety of other shoppers.  Do not execute a sudden lane change without at least warning the gentleman who is presently rolling his cart over the heels of your Reeboks that he may suddenly find himself neck deep in summer squash.  Likewise, don’t speed up suddenly, causing the six-year-old boy who is riding below the cart in front of you like a mudflap on a tractor-trailer to wrap around your front wheel like freshly chewed bubblegum.

6.                  Do not accelerate like Richard Petty on the straightaway at Talledega to beat me to the Express Lane, especially if your buggy is loaded like a Conastoga and you’re counting all 24 cans of Friskies as one item to make the 10-item limit.  I have killed for less than that.

7.                  Most importantly, steer clear of the lady dressed in stretchy pants and flip flops, who is wringing her hands and circling the snack aisle with a cart that contains an open bag of Ruffles chips, two boxes of Ding Dongs, and a frozen pizza.  It’s me and I can’t decide what to have for supper.



Join Amy Mullis at www.mindovermullis.com for more "Don't Let This Happen to You" moments. And just to make sure there's no trouble, steer clear of Aisle 5.

The Ghost of the White Masque

by Amy Mullis

When I was a kid, other children were forbidden to run with scissors or guzzle

strychnine. I was forbidden to watch Dark Shadows or Alfred Hitchcock movies.

My parents instituted these rules out of self-preservation. A scary commercial or two and

I would hide all the knives in the house to prevent passing marauders or random serial

killers from dropping in to decapitate me. For weeks after, nobody could make a

sandwich.

But it took more than a set of unsupportive parents to hold me back. I had the entire

collection of Agatha Christie murder mysteries on a bookshelf in my room. And the

folks always went out on Saturday night. It was their date night.

*Cue scary Psycho music*

One Saturday evening, after sloshing through a particularly delicious parade of Christie-wrought bodies, complete with a psychopathic grandmotherly-type poisoner, I stayed up to catch an old Alfred Hitchcock film with my sister. This particular sister was a troll when it came to sharing a bedroom, but her willingness to let me stay up to watch a forbidden flick was endearing. I was 12 and able to take care of any threatening

circumstances that should arise.

On a totally unrelated note, I’d been watching Dark Shadows every afternoon, an activity

banned by my mother, who was a coward. But just now she was off munching movie

popcorn somewhere with Dad, and Alfred Hitchcock ruled our black-and-white airwaves.

At 11:00 the movie wound down and I glanced nonchalantly under the couch cushions

for drooling monsters. I headed to my safe, comfortable bed, but was delayed by a sudden

crisis.

I had to go to the bathroom. I had to go with that special urgency that could resolve itself

upon sudden contact with the undead.

There were two doors into the bathroom, and only one of them had a lock. The other lead

to the kitchen. I slunk past axe murderers peering in the kitchen windows and

disappeared into the bathroom. My sister sighed and used the kitchen sink to wash her

face.

I didn’t know she used Noxema.

If you’ve never witnessed the Cold Cream Face, just imagine a cross between the Joker

and Ghosbuster’s Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. After the meltdown. Then throw in a

touch of Frankenstein’s finest for good measure.

I peered out of the bathroom door to make sure the path toward the bedroom was safe,

and clear of homicidal maniacs. I couldn’t help but notice that a bizarre form had

possessed my sister’s body and was staring at me from a pasty white face. To an

impressionable young girl pursued by serial killers, a female with a face full of Noxema

is as close to zombie as she’s likely to get; especially if it’s a sister who’s stingy about

sharing her room.

I screamed.

The face screamed, the horrible white skin cracking around terrible dark eyes. Luckily I

was holding my belt, a fashionable white number typical of the 1970’s, with double rows

of metal eyelets.

A weapon! Slinging the belt like a whip, I attacked the alien form. It screamed louder.

So did I. If any old deranged alien zombie swamp monster thought it could pass me on

lung power, it was mistaken.

“It’s me!” screamed the deranged alien zombie swamp monster.

“AAAAIIIIIEEEEE!” I answered, wielding the belt with ferocity and a certain amount of

flair.

There’s a little dance that generally accompanies the shrieks of a terror-stricken belt

wielder. Although it is difficult to describe without a visual demonstration, aficionados

of the horror genre or random passers by with even a brief familiarity of the work of Mr.

Hitchcock can appreciate the steps.

The monster lunged at me, hideous hands outstretched. It spoke. “It’s me. It’s ME!”

The monster had taken over my sister’s body. And it was after mine.

I did the dance. I screamed louder. I beat the air with enough fervor to split atoms.

The monster began to laugh. It called my name. I’m pretty sure it wet its pants.

At some point, it occurred to me that if a zombie was going to eat my brains, it would get

the matter over with instead of convulsing in snorting heaves on the kitchen floor. I

screamed slower, paused in the belt buckle aerobics, and studied the situation.

Sis was leaning against the kitchen sink, holding her sides while she laughed and thought

up ways to use the whole episode against me.

“It’s Noxema!” she snorted, wiping the white cream with a tissue. “You should have

seen the look on your face. I’ve never seen anyone so scared.”

There’s a moment directly following total humiliation when you try to salvage any shreds

of dignity that may be wisping by like cobwebs. Chin up, I headed toward my room.

“Too bad you can’t tell anyone.”

“And why not?” Noxema zombies don’t take direction well.

“Because Mom will know you let me watch Alfred Hitchcock. You’ll be twenty years

past the Pond’s Seven Day Beauty Plan before you’re allowed to watch television again.”

She snorted one last time and turned her back.

And that’s how I got a room of my own.

Amy Mullis hides from Things That Go Bump In The Night at her blog, Mind over Mullis.

Join her there to munch chocolate chip cookies and swap stories. The scariest stories

involve teaching the kids to drive.

Cross My Heart and Hope to Buy

by Amy Mullis

In a fit of social conformity and because a quick glimpse of myself in a department store mirror reminded me of the Matterhorn during spring thaw, I went bra shopping today.   On the whole I’d rather have first dibs in the selection of nooses the hangman is going to use to finish me off.  Or at least pick which angry nail technician is going to file my little toe down to niblet size at Naughty Nails.

First off, there’s the personality clash.  Bras today are undeniably perky, padded, and prime-time ready. If the bras I saw in the lingerie section were the Tiggers on Pooh’s corner, my chest is covered in wall-to-wall Eeyores.  Unless I raise my arms, you couldn’t pick me out of a lineup of Christopher Robins.  Out-of-date eggs are more likely to be sunny side up.

It’s not bad enough that bras are displayed according to styles instead of arranged by sizes like hammers, condoms, and other handy household items. Overcrowded conditions cause the things jump to their deaths like lemmings whenever you approach the rack.  The floor is covered with scraps of lace and spandex like the result of a bridal party-streetwalker collision. To streamline the whole process, I selected a wheelbarrow full of likely candidates and threw them on the floor. 

I blame the whole thing on over-aggressive sales clerks who know that once you enter the barren land known as foundations, you’ve forsaken pleasure shopping and are not going home without an underwire that doesn’t snap in half like a fortune cookie whenever you bend over to tie your shoe. 

Not only was I discouraged that everything seemed to be the wrong size, I was dismayed to find they were also the wrong shape.  To me, pushups are something I had to do in gym when I refused to wear the regulation gender-neutral guerrilla togs.  In Lingerie Central, it’s something that plugs your boobs into your nostrils like nose plugs. A swimmer with a push-up bra will never have to worry about water on the brain.  And at my age, I’m in real danger of losing at least one over my shoulder.

I wanted something a little kinder to my body than the underwire air mattresses hanging in rows.  Something feminine made from fibers that did not originate in the Space Program. I finally found a cotton and lace number that made sand castles out of parts I thought had been lost at sea long ago.  Never again will I have to check my armpits to see which direction I’m facing. 

I celebrated my successful shopping trip with dinner at The Egg Roll King where I finished up with a fortune cookie that was right on the money. It said, “Things are looking up.”

But just to be safe, I’m going to get someone else to tie my shoes.

You'll find Amy Mullis hanging out, eating cookies, and avoiding heavy lifting over at Mind Over Mullis.  Come join the fun, but bring your own cookies.

Yoga Bare

It's vacation time so while the Ermas are off sunning themselves, I'm trotting out several of my favorite essays. Enjoy!

Stacey - Editor of An Army of Ermas

 

by Amy Mullis 

It’s not that the folks in one part of the country eat healthier than the others, but I come from a place in the South where if you slow down for a yellow light, we will deep fry your car. We’ve done everything from Oreos to pickles. A slow-moving Volkswagen is not going to give us any trouble.

So when the family doctor mentioned that the levels in the Captain’s blood indicated that various but important internal organs could freeze up like Bill Gates’ Windows, we were faced with the choice of updating his will or changing his diet.

As a final insult Doc threw in the kicker, “You’ll want to get some exercise every day. And I don’t mean the kind you get pulling the release lever on the recliner.”

The Captain sighed mournfully, hovering on the brink of starvation and eyeing Famous Amos like they were twins parted at birth. “I’ll leave my knife collection to the boys in case they’re right about that graveyard up the street.”

What can I say? Once you’ve had Southern food, a zombie apocalypse seems palatable next to the thought of giving up biscuits and gravy forever.

But I checked the man’s life insurance policy and decided that he’s worth more in flesh than in funds. True love and a nice dose of greed conquers all things.

So in the name of health and paying it forward, I loaded up the Yoga program on the family game system and demonstrated the various poses. I looked like a napping Labrador in the Downward Dog position. That is, if the Labrador had consumed more breakfasts than his own more often than not, which is a reasonable assumption if you know a Labrador.

Soon the Captain of my Dream Boat decided that since he is under doctor’s orders to reduce his ballast, he can use exercise for an excuse to hold on to the remote, and he latched onto the Feng Shui of yoga and jumped on my workout bandwagon with both love handles.

The difference is that I wear clothes.

I don’t want to be indelicate, but this man gives a whole new meaning to the term “sun salutation.” It’s enough to make you pray for an eclipse.

I rounded the corner into the living room just as he started another pose. There’s not a swimsuit model alive that’s assumed that position and made it to pay day.

“OH MY GOD, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

“I’m supposed to touch my toes.”

“With what?”

The dog put one paw over his eyes and limped out of the room on three legs.

“Yoga is the ancient Eastern art of obtaining balance. To ensure your Yin and Yang compliment each other.”

“Well don’t look now but you’re about to get rug burn on your Yang.”

“You don’t appreciate the peace that comes with reaching the inner you.”

About that time, Son 2 came through the back door, happy in the knowledge that a math teacher with the flu gave him an extra video game hour in his day. This kid is 19, and he’s so cool he sweats perma frost. At that moment he had achieved Nirvana and was one with a Klondike bar.

As usual, the cat came in with him, purring around his legs like they were from the same litter. I don’t know if it has anything to do with the semi-regularity of his hygiene routine, but felines follow him around like he wears catnip skivvies.

There are times when it seems possible to stretch an instant like an overstuffed garbage bag, and more action than seems possible happens at once.

The Captain snapped into a position that caused his Yin and Yang to become one just as the Klondike bar in turn became one with the floor. My maternal superpowers kicked in and I flung the nearest article of covering, a tasseled blanket from the couch, over the offending object. (Not the ice cream bar.) This move was interpreted as an invitation by the kitty who, as the instinct of a thousand generations kicked in, sprang into action, claws in attack position, intent on consuming the dancing tassels.

In high school, I wasn’t the type that dabbled in theoretics or quantam physicals. All I remember from my science class is the little ditty that says, “For every action there is an opposite and equal reaction.” It seemed like it might apply to big brother somehow, so I tucked it in the snack cupboard of my mind to apply later.

I didn’t realize it gave felines the power to fly.

Everything that happened after that is a blur. But the phrase "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" keeps scrolling past my mind's eye. I guess sometimes it’s better for Yin and Yang to have separate dressing rooms.

Hubby made a vow never to do sun salutations without pants ever again. And now we all have inner peace.

Except the cat, who still puffs like an electric pompom whenever we turn on the Yoga video.



Visit Amy at Mind Over Mullis and help her cut a swathe through the jungle--the one below her knees.

Paper, Scissors, Rock!

by Amy Mullis

On the whole, I’d rather give my teenage son a Platinum MasterCard and send him to Wal-Mart on Saturday night than do the Back-to-School shopping myself.

His gym locker is in better shape than the Three-Ring Binder section of Wal-Mart after the list-bearing hordes have swept through. Back-to-school shoppers invade discount stores in August like a swarm of fire ants in a field of sweetgrass, and they’re not leaving until they’ve crossed the last bottle of hand soap off their list and called in their relatives to find the Green Lantern lunchbox they hid behind the broccoli display back in June.

Anyone who thinks a mother in search of a pack of Crayolas and a bottle of Elmer’s isn’t dangerous has never had a kid in 4K. Here’s a woman who has visions of getting a toddler-sized tornado out of her kitchen and Dora the Explorer off of her television and there’s not a force of nature that can stop her from climbing over two Kleenex displays and a store manager to get that last glue stick.

Don’t even get me started about book bags and blue jeans. You’d think that one pair of pants made out of faded blue denim would be pretty much be like the ones you found for ten bucks on the clearance rack at Target. Just because the hem hit mid-ankle and the waistband tucked neatly under his armpits, Teen Boy at my house went all white around the shoetops and refused to have his yearbook picture made.

And when did a backpack become a designer accessory? Today’s bags have room for everything except books, which—according to Son One who is a High School graduate, and therefore an expert in these, and all other, matters--are optional in the classroom these days. I can understand filmstrips going the way of ancient technology, but books? They take up valuable space needed for everything from cell phones to e-readers.  When my kid said he needed a Kindle, I thought we’d reverted to book burnings and I offered to go out to eat and send all my cookbooks to fan the flames.

But the main source of our back-to-school woes is friends. It is a principle of life that a true friend will not buy the very last pair of torn Hollister jeans at the mall. Nor will a friend refuse to eat school lunch and choose to hang out at the drink machine after I’ve shelled out $300 in advance for the pizza line in the cafeteria. Last year I discovered that I was feeding three random boys and the school rabbit, while the only things my child ate off his plate was apple peel and barbecue chips.

This year I have resolve. I will not buy clothes just because the people my child doesn’t even like wear them. I will not buy trading cards just because the people my child does like would rather duel than eat lunch. I will not volunteer to chaperone the school dance just so my child can go and eat free pizza.

But if I get free pizza, that’s another story. I’ll have to buy something cool to wear. Maybe some Hollister jeans. And a backpack to bring home leftovers.  After all, I donated my cookbooks to education.

From Hair to Humidity

by Amy Mullis

So, what’s the best of fun that summer has to offer?

Picnics?

Nope.

The beach?

For wimps.

Blockbuster movies?

Theatrical entertainment is for the weak.

The ideal summer activity is planning an outdoor wedding.  In July. In the South. At the height of the season.  Kudzu season.  Red mud season.  Anybody outside boils like an egg in ten minutes season. And just to even the odds for the mosquitoes, let’s make it for the afternoon when the guests are too hot to swat.

July is also tops for sudden afternoon thunderstorms, tornadoes, and wandering bouts of hail.  But there’s not a natural disaster in the arsenal that can compare to a July Bride who can’t wiggle into her dress because sweat stains have created speed bumps in the satin.

14 years ago on July 12, I considered all the options and decided it was the perfect time to marry the Captain.  There was a time I thought sticking my hand in a frightened dog’s mouth was a good idea too, but hopefully this plan wouldn’t come back to bite me. Or require stitches.

Luckily I had sisters to help with the preparations, because the bulk of wedding planning always falls on the bride.  All the groom had to do was change jobs, pack up all his belongings, leave his friends behind, and move to another state. At least he didn’t have to find a size 12 dress that was cut like a 14. And shoes to match.  In the days when pantyhose still ruled the thighs.

Talk about super powers. The Green Lantern’s got nothing on a bride who has six weeks to plan the wedding of the certifiable, find a dress that doesn’t make her look like a dead ringer for the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, and pumps that won’t leave her heels down in the cucumbers when she strolls out the back door and past the weedeater to get married in the shade of her Daddy’s historic “Does anybody know what that huge tree is?”  (Note to self:  don’t stand under a nest unless your dress blends with bird poop.)  And it would take more than Wonder Woman’s magic tiara to keep her hair from turning into a sea sponge when the humidity tops out at water skiing levels.

Superman thought he had it bad with the blue tights and the day job.  The Captain should count himself lucky.  At least he didn’t have to hoist me over his shoulder to fly off on our honeymoon, a move which could bring his insurance deductible into play and threaten any rigorous honeymoon activities.

All he had to do was pay.

Join Amy, the Captain, and the baggage they’ve collected in fourteen years of marital baloney at Mind Over Mullis.  Remember, do not try this at home. You, too, could end up with kids, Labradors, and bad hair!

Guiding Light

By Amy Mullis

“So why did explorers use The North Star to find things?  Why didn’t they use something everybody can see, like The Big Dipper or the sign from the Hot Spot?”
 

It’s our anniversary.  We are on vacation together in beautiful, historic Charleston, South Carolina, a sparkling corner of the world where the Ashley and Cooper Rivers come together with the Atlantic Ocean, and are rediscovering the joys of navigating life’s little highways as a team.  On the whole, I’d rather be juggling skunks.  We’re forced into this extramarital mall trip because I got lost on a whitewater rafting trip down the river of nostalgia and the only bra I remembered to pack is the bra I wore for our wedding:  an ivory lace number encrusted with sequins and seed pearls.  I’ve been saving it in pink tissue paper for almost a decade.  It’s great for sentimental value, and loaded with sex appeal, but produces a rather lumpy silhouette under a tank top; especially after almost ten years of married-life food.  Needless to say, my cups not only runneth over, they look like both air bags inflated in a head on collision with a pole dancer.  

“They used the North Star because it is fixed in the sky.  It doesn’t move.”

I’m married to an astronomy nut.  I love the guy, but to him the difference between true north and magnetic north is absolute.  To me, north is up.  Check any map.

“Oh.  I though it was all fixed.  Aren’t we the ones moving?” I’ve taken two hours to do my hair and makeup and the Captain of my canoe is getting miffed over my directional skills.

“It doesn’t matter who’s doing the moving.  The point is that if you see the North Star, that’s North.  Get it?”

          “Look, I’m not Keifer Erickson.  I just want to find the mall.”

“It’s Leif.”

“I don’t care if it’s ferns and daisies.  I have a desperate need for a department store.”

“It’s probably under that patch of sky that has no stars.  See, the city lights have blotted out all signs of any heavenly bodies over there.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” I answer smartly, eyeing a movie poster of Johnny Depp that could make you rechart your course.

“Very funny.  Hold the map over here where I can see it.  We’re coming to a junction and I think we go west.”

“I think we go left at the Piggly Wiggly.”

 “Grocery stores aren’t marked on the map.  We proceed to the junction and take the highway west to the next exit.”

“Okay Scout, but you passed the side entrance to the mall twice during the geography lesson.”

“Well, sure, if you want to sneak in the side, we can turn here.  I was going to take you in the front door like a civilized person.”

“Don’t try to kid me. Your horizons have broadened so far you can’t see the road in front of you. You can look toward the heavens and find Mars, Jupiter, and the gas station with the lowest prices, but you can’t read the writing on the mall.”

We rode the rest of the way in silence. There’s more noise in the car on the way home from school on report card day than there was between the bucket seats that night. He circled the lanes of cars and glared at me.

            “Can’t we do this later?”   

I love the guy, but his priorities are way out of order. I arched one eyebrow to alert him to a possible relationship-altering trap. “I’m wearing my sequined wedding bra under a white tank top.  All those little disks catch the light and send Morse code signals through my clothes. I look like I’m smuggling two signalmen with diamond semaphore flags. Yesterday a woman at the lemonade stand thought I was trying to call 911.”

            “That’s ridiculous.  You don’t know your dashes from your dots.”

            “Right now my dots are lit up like the beer sign in a cowboy club.  You don’t want me to give the wrong impression, do you?”

“No?” he guessed.  He hasn’t stayed married for almost ten years without squirreling away some random nuts of wisdom.

            “You could look at the tools while I’m in the lingerie department.”

            “I don’t like sissy mall tools.”

            “There’s that store with all the gadgets.”

            The way his eyes lit up, I could use the beam to track him all the way to the laser levels.  Real men show sentiment about important things:  whatchamacallits, thingamabobs and gizmos with pocket holsters. 

            “Well, if you’re getting something new,” he mused, “I might just splurge on something with a digital display.  Or one of those camouflage holsters that holds hot sauce that you can attach to your belt.”

            “Live it up,” I laughed, squeezing his hand and heading off to Lingerie.  

The secret to a long and happy marriage is knowing which tool is right for the job.  And sometimes it’s not the one covered in sequins.

Amy Mullis enjoys the high and low tides of marital bliss at her home somewhere in the creeks and channels of South Carolina.  Shoot the rapids of life with her at www.mindovermullis.com.  Bring lifeboats and survival gear.