Monkey Boy and Inappropriate Words

by Pauline Campos

I followed a boy to college. I met this boy, who would eventually become referred to as Monkey Boy amongst my little circle of friends, when he took part in the presentation group during my high school tour of the campus) and promptly decided that he would ask me to marry him just moments after officially graduating, ring in one hand and his diploma in the other. The families in attendance at the graduation ceremony would clap and cheer and my friends would sigh dreamily and then glare at their boyfriends who would be pretending to be suddenly fascinated with the graduation program in their hands, and we’d all live happily ever after.

What actually happened went more like this: I returned home from that day’s college tour, threw away the pile of college applications I had been filling out, and instead applied only to the university I knew would accept me because of that whole “minority” thing. (Politically correct? Nope. But it makes for a ready-made punch line.) Monkey Boy and I instantly became “a thing” and he accompanied me to my senior prom, which turned out to be probably The Second Worse Decision Ever Made. I don’t remember all of the details, but friends tell me he was a total Insert Inappropriate Word Here and I walked around most of the night with a face The Husband usually takes as a sign to head for the hills and wait until the dust has settled before returning.

Monkey Boy, it seemed, felt my little high school dance was beneath him and had probably only agreed to come with me for a reason to flaunt his ego for the public. There was no dancing to be done and the corsage I wore on my wrist was only there because, well, I bought it. I have no idea where it is, but somewhere in my collection of Photos Before Digital there is one of me glaring at my date, arms crossed over my chest, and hip cocked to one side, while the smart people in the group backed away. Monkey Boy was too busy making crazy faces while hamming it up for the camera to notice the fact that I was trying to light his hair on fire with my eyes.

I saw him one more time after my prom (and before my freshman year officially began), and I’m thinking it was mainly for me to confirm that he really was an Insert Inappropriate Word Here and that I was Too Good for him. Both turned out to be true statements. And I arrived on the grounds of the campus I had selected based on a daydream and a promise a free woman just in time to witness Monkey Boy’s academic swift academic demise. I’m not sure where he is now, but I can’t blame him for being the Insert Inappropriate Word Here that he was. It wouldn’t be fair.

I am who I am and where I am right at this very moment all because of the fact that I followed a boy to college…and then chose my own path.

Ermas interview: Pauline Campos

Today's interview is with up-and-coming Erma, Pauline Campos.

Ermas: You've been an Erma for a year now and you haven't run away screaming - you've got the chops, babe. Tell us more about you and what you're working on.

A year? Already? And we forgot to celebrate with cheap wine and a last-minute greeting card? Obviously, our relationship has surpassed that New and Shiny stage and cruised right into Happily Ever After and this makes me happy. Aside from playing a semi-convincing role of a humor writer on here and a few other sites I love, I'm currently email-stalking my agent during the submission process of my memoir for updates. She has kindly requested that I wait at least five minutes between emails.

Ermas: You're fighting the good fight about body image and how it affects our daughters on your blog, what's been the most positive thing you've seen come from this?

 I might be full of saucy-awesomeness when it comes to not having a filter and cracking wise, but it took a long time for me to be able to reach the level of comfort in my writing to be able to share my own eating-disordered past. Because of my own history, I'm very aware of what I say around my daughter and how I say it because no one ever means to encourage their daughter/sister/niece to hate their own body or become a bulimic. I want other mothers to be aware of that. A mother of a 14-year-old once thanked me after reading a column I wrote about PLUS Model Magazine's decision to feature a full-figured model in a photo spread criticizing the current obsession with the thin ideal. This mother shared my column with her daughter because she thought it would have a positive impact on her teen girl. That single act made me feel like I had made all the difference in the world.

Ermas: Motherhood isn't for the weak, you need upper body strength to wrestle the last cookie away from the kids. What was the last thing you wrestled your daughter for -- and who won?

Every day is a mental wrestling match with this kid and by the the time it's ready for her to go to bed, I'm frothing at the mouth at the thought of a wine slushie. She'll be five very soon and I'm pretty sure she's been able to out-logically-think me since the day she said "Mama" for the first time. I'm not bragging when I tell you that she was just about 12 weeks old when The Husband realized she had just uttered her first word. No, my friends, not at all. What I am actually doing is explaining to you that should your future progeny ever do something similar, it's probably best to admit that your newborn is smarter than you than make yourself look plain silly trying to look like you still have the upper hand. Also? The last wrestling match involved the Tickle Monster and much giggling. She stopped, thankfully, before I peed myself.

Ermas: Do you have a hidden musical talent? And is there video?

There probably is but I'm pretty sure it's still on VHS and that I should be very glad of this fact because this head of curls did *not* rock the middle-school craze of Aqua Net and teased bangs very well. I played flute and piccolo in concert band, got wild and crazy with the cymbals for parades and half-time shows and occasionally liked to hang out with the pit percussion on the sidelines with a pair of mallets and a marimba. Please don't be impressed. Have you ever seen an Aqua-netted chia pet marching backwards on a football field? It isn't pretty.

Ermas: The zombie apocalypse finally started after that last bite of infected taco and they're headed your way. You've been preparing for it for at least the last fifteen minutes, what weapons do you have on your desk to protect yourself?

I did already mention the Aqua Net...didn't I? Oh, and my bad. I thought that taco meat didn't smell right when I made dinner....

Honesty in Gift Giving

By Pauline Campos

A conversation about a family trip.

Me: “David called. He and Erica want Buttercup to be a flower girl in their wedding with her being their goddaughter, and all.”

The Husband: “How much does the dress cost?” 

                                    
Me: “$170.00.”

The Husband: “Where’s the wedding?”

Me: “Far enough away from everyone’s homes that they took it upon themselves to block off a bunch of hotel rooms for guests.”

The Husband: “What do those run?”

Me: “I think it’s $150.00 for the night.”

The Husband: “I need a new suit. You need a dress. She needs shoes”

Me: “Why don’t I get new shoes?”

The Husband: “Because we’re already broke and we haven’t even looked at plane fare yet.”

Me: “Actually, I just bought three seats on a plane landing in Detroit two days before the wedding.”

The Husband: “Do I even want to know?”

Me: “It was twelve hundred for the round-trip tickets.”

The Husband: “You should have just said, ‘No honey…you really don’t want to know.’”

Me: “Yeah, but then I wouldn’t be able to tell you that I booked the tickets out of the Phoenix airport and we need to figure in 115.9 miles worth of gas for the Yukon.”

The Husband: “But we live in Tucson.”

Me: “Very good. Here’s a cookie. But if we drive twenty minutes to the Tuscon airport to wait two hours for a plane that lands 45 minutes later in Phoenix because every flight out of Tucson seems to connect there, most likely 20 minutes later than planned and leaving us 10 minutes to race to the other end of the airport to catch the connecting flight that will take us to Detroit, I’ll probably kill you for not just letting me cut out the middle man and driving two hours to Phoenix in the first place, that’s why.”

The Husband: “Phoenix it is, then. How much more is this trip going to cost us?”

Me: “Well, we can’t show up without a wedding gift.”

The Husband: “Really? We’re paying for a flower girl dress, flying cross country, springing for a hotel room, and putting up with both sides of the Crazy until we get on the plane back to Tucson and it’s not considered socially acceptable for us to get a pass on the freaking wedding gift?”

Me: “You mean we can’t afford a $3.95 Hallmark card?”

The Husband: “We’re just getting them a card?”

Me: “I figured it was a nice way of presenting our plane ticket stubs, don’t ya think?”

End of conversation.

Because Asterisks Make Me Happy

By Pauline Campos

* If black is the new brown, then anti-depressants are the new happy. And Siri has been a very good girl when it comes to reminding me to pop the happy every morning, especially when I get cocky and think my brain will manufacture visions of unicorns and rainbows without the pills.

*Of course I’m not seeing unicorns and rainbows because of the pills. It’s not that kind of drug. I was simply illustrating the point that seeing a unicorn would make me as happy as taking the medication does. Probably happier, if I really stop to think about it.

*Now I just want a unicorn.

* But since I’m pretty certain I won’t be seeing a real, live, and in-the-flesh unicorn anytime soon I’m settling for the pharmaceutical definition of happy. Copay? $5.

* Humor is a wonderful coping mechanism, isn’t it?

* Yes, I’m still a certifiable mess. But these rose-colored glasses are kind of making everything look a bit pretty, so I’m taking things slow in the Getting Back on the Wagon department.

* Forget the counting of calories, the number on the scale, or labeling of Good versus Bad for the foods I am consuming. Instead I’m focusing on how I feel and taking note of and acknowledging the setbacks, as well as the steps in the right direction.

* How I feel is also a factor in deciding to take the plunge and make an appointment with a local naturopath because traditional doctors either don’t want to listen to me when I tell them the tests stating I’m normal are all lying, or they want to help and just don’t know what to do with me. I don’t know how to describe it other than telling you that I am certain there are autoimmune issues and possibly serious allergy issues that need to be addressed. 

* How do I know this? Because one day about six months ago I woke up to find out my Mexifro had morphed into straight, flyaway pieces of straw and it was breaking off at my neck. The new growth was fine. Which made me realize that…

* That fluke thing that happened to me when Buttercup was a baby that lasted for six months and then suddenly went away and I woke up with normal hair and a smile wasn’t a fluke thing. Still, my doctors think I’m crazy. And I think most of them are idiots.

* It’s kind of a stalemate.

* Of course, me cutting off all my hair with the scissors in the junk drawer just because I suddenly thought it might be a great idea but mainly because I had so much break off it was either that or a wig might give some credence to the doctors’ argument, especially if you focus on the Suddenly Great Idea and Scissors part, but since I don’t have paparazzi hanging out in my garbage cans and my name isn’t Britney Spears, I’m totally fine with that.

A Perfectly Satirical Advice Column

By Pauline Campos

Who's got a question they want answered? Who's dying for solicited advice that was only solicited because I figured the answers would make for a good column? No pushing, people....form a single file line right here. Who's first?

Dear Aspiring Mama: Where have all my winter socks gone?
-- LainaSpareTime

Laina,
(May I call you Laina?)

Your socks have obviously run away and eloped with my missing winter socks, as is evidenced by the spectacular number of unmatched singles I currently have taunting me in the basket in my living room. I'm going to assume your next question to me will be "But why? Why did my socks leave me, Pauline? Did I not show them enough affection? Did I expect too much of them?" And to be perfectly frank, the answer is this: Your socks left you because of that weird I Don't Like Other People Touching My Feet Rule of yours that keeps you from getting a pedicure. Because really, do you want to hug a foot that hasn't been dipped in paraffin at least twice in the last four weeks?

Exactly.

Dear Aspiring Mama: I've always wanted to know-- How do I deal with that not so fresh feeling?
-- Saving for Someday

Always a tough one. Let me figure out how many licks it takes to get to the center of this Tootsie Pop and help Foreigner figure out what love is and then I promise I'll answer your question.

Dear Aspiring Mama: My boys are hitting puberty! Help! What do I do?
--BanteringBlonde

As the mother of a four-year-old girl who will eventually be dating, I am perfectly qualified to answer this question for you. Actually, I'm lying and in desperate need of advice on how far to run when my daughter realizes she has hormones. In fact, I've also been wondering if I'm totally doing this parenting thing wrong and if I should start funneling some of her college savings into a Future Therapy Slush Fund. Your thoughts?

Dear Aspiringmama: Sometimes I fantasize about going out for milk and moving to Como to search for George Clooney. Should I act?
--Ooph

I’d wait at least a few months. Give him a chance to get over the paranoia from my stalking…errr…Clooney search. I’d offer to drive with you but there’s the little matter of a restraining order...Send me a post card?

***

There ya have it, folks. Next time, I'm charging.

Road Rulz

by Pauline Campos

Did you know that the shape of the school crossing sign is made to represent a school house so as to help those of us behind the wheel of a car remember to follow the posted speed limits?

Yeah...me neither. Which is probably why I was standing in line with 50 other people to sign in for traffic school. As much as that sounds like it would be made of absolute suckage, I have to admit that (aside from the waking up at 5 a.m. thing) the day was pretty entertaining. And by entertaining? I totally mean educational and *clears throat* always obey the rules of the road, kids. You're too pretty to become someone's girlfriend in prison.

And for that matter, so am I.

This is why I'm here today, y'all. To share with you the highlights of what I learned in traffic school. Keep in mind that some (or all except for one) may only apply to Arizona, so I hereby recuse myself and The Army of Ermas of Any of Your Issues if you try to use any of the contents of this post to fight some crazy traffic ticket in the Alaskan boonies.

That being said...

* Never, under any circumstances, point out to the instructor that you found your almost falling asleep at the wheel on the way in to traffic school ironic, seeing as this whole thing is supposed to be about safety.

* It's probably also an even better idea to not file a formal request to allow those with access to the Internet to send in traffic school payment via PayPal and take the course during a special Twitter party with the hashtag "RoadRulz". Trust me...it won't go over well.

* While the driver of a motorcycle is not legally required to wear a helmet, his (or her) passenger is. Insurance companies are thereby encouraged to point and laugh at each biker who willingly signs off on the safety gear and instead chooses to pay a higher premium on his (or her) insurance policy.

* Homeschooling is required for children ages five and up.

* Well, maybe only if parents of said child who will be in a five-point-harness until she's 30 wish to spare her the humiliation of being unstrapped from her car seat every morning at school drop off from now until her senior year of college, seeing as safety seats for kids are not required for children over the age of five.

* "Work with your neighbor" in regards to class tests means the person sitting next to you, not the people who are laughing at you on Facebook for landing yourself in this mess.

* "So, what are you in for" is an acceptable greeting in traffic school.

* "I was FRAMED" is an (obviously) acceptable response to the aforementioned greeting in traffic school but...

*  Streaking blue eye-shadow across one's face and screaming "FREEDOM" upon dismissal tends to be frowned upon. 

* Oh right...and the brake pedal's on the left. 

Happy Driving!

On Looking Into the Light

by Pauline Campos

I make sad things funny. It’s a coping mechanism, I am sure. But it’s also an engrained part of my culture.

Sometimes, though, sad things make themselves funny. Like when my aunt told my father to look into the light.

As he lay on his deathbed.

Oh, she didn’t mean it that way. But English isn’t her first language. So while my sisters and I were fighting tears and laughter for two separate reasons, my father’s sisters were rallying my him to stay with us as they rubbed his hands and patted his feet and reminded my father of all the reasons he needed to focus on living.

He was 50 and had gone into the hospital to have heart valve replacement surgery (the original surgery a result of rheumatic fever he suffered as a child) and was supposed to have been released in time to celebrate Christmas with the family. Being the cocky Mexican stereotype that he was, it hadn’t really entered his mind that he might not come home. And because we all believed him to be the strongest man in the world, we had only focused on making fun of him while he recovered.

But problems arose after the surgery. And after a few close calls, the doctors finally told me and my mother to call everyone to the hospital. He wouldn’t make it more than a few hours.

There were only a few people to call. If you break your toe in my family, we are required to turn the waiting room into an ethnic stereotype. Every tia, tio, prima, and primo within driving distance is called to appear at the hospital, waiting for the afflicted to emerge, triumphant and cured. I am sure the hospital staff groans when we all arrive; a Spanglish three ring circus. Even as the doctor quietly urged us to notify friends and family, he looked around at the standing room only crowd already present.

Five daughters.
 
Two son-in-laws.
 
One Godson.
 
One grandfather.
 
Two brother-in-laws.
 
Three of four sisters.
 
One Niece.
 
One (or was it two?) long time friends.
 
One uncle who had flown in from Texas.
 
One aunt who had delayed her trip back to Mexico.
 
One wife of thirty years…who just happened to be celebrating her 49th birthday that very day on November 27, 2007. 

But we made calls. My in-laws were at my house taking care of 5-month-old Buttercup, but everyone else we could get a hold of did their best to arrive before my father left us. And while we waited for the inevitable, my aunts continued to rally my father.

“Rene! Rene! Stay with us! You have your daughter’s Rene. Pauline, Veronica, Sonya, Maria, Patricia!”

Stay with us, Rene! You have the grandchildren!”

“Rene! Dorothy is here, Rene. It’s her birthday, Rene. She needs you to take care of her, Rene!”

His signs were fading.
The beeping was slowing.
The tears were flowing.

I kept my eyes closed. Easier to block the tears that way. I needed to stay focused on catching my mother before she hit the ground when the last beep would eventually fade away. And that damned light over his bed was harsh enough to sting my already tired eyes.

I stood in between Pati and Sonya, with one arm around each of their shoulders. Being six inches taller than both of them, I was able to offer them a place to rest their heads while I used them for support to keep standing.

None of us spoke. We just let my dad’s sisters cry and wail and toggle between English and Spanish while they tried to break through to his spirit. His body may have been failing, but he was strong. Maybe strong enough to make the impossible possible. If only they could reach him.

“Rene!” One of his sister’s cried out. “Rene! Look into the light, Rene! Look into the light!”

My eyes shot open as my face crumpled into a pained expression that had nothing to do with my father and everything to do with me trying to bite back a “What the HELL?” at what had just been uttered.

“Really?

Really?” 

She, of course, meant the light over his bed. The one harnessing the power of the sun. The one we would have joked was bright enough to wake the dead had my father not been dying.

But a chuckle, which came out as a muffled sob, escaped one of my sisters. Sonya and Pati, tears streaming down their cheeks, both looked up at me. They wanted to laugh. My father would have laughed. He would have laughed his ass off.  But it wasn’t the right time. Later. We could laugh after we got home. After we had signed off on the autopsy. After we got my mother into bed. While we sat huddled together waiting to leave for the funeral home. After we got home from the service. When we needed a reason to remind us that Christmas was a time of happiness. We could, and would laugh about it often. All it took was one of us to dramatically call out, “Look into the light!”

But not now. Not yet.

I pursed my lips and silently shook my head slowly. It was as much an admonition for them as it was a reminder to me not to lose it. Because good God, I needed to laugh.

“Rene! Look into the light!” She cried out, as the beeping slowed even more. “Look into light!”

My father had never listened to his sisters. He never listened to anyone. But as the beep, beep, beep finally drew itself out into a heart-wrenching “beeeeeeeeeeep” until one of the nurses (thankfully) turned off the machines, as I let go of my sisters to catch my mother before she fell to the floor…I had one thought.

“Damn it, Dad! Fifty years! And you listen to them now?”

The Straight. The Proud. The Observant.

by Pauline Campos

I swear I’m married to the only straight man in the history of the world who notices a new pair of shoes hidden under the cuffs of my flare-bottom jeans. I bet my mom $5 he’d notice, and she owes me.

We trekked out to the stores the other day for a little retail therapy and The Husband knew I was coming home with A pair of cross trainers (for the workouts I keep promising myself I’m gonna do). And I bought them. But I also found the cutest pair of Skechers that were just calling my name. So I left with two boxes and rationalized that the Skechers were actually an investment since they would be my dedicated everyday shoes and therefore would save my new Pumas from
needless abuse and thereby lengthen their precious lifespan by months while I troll around the house and Tucson doing Mom-stuff and really, that totally makes the sixty extra bucks I spent on the second pair of shoes a smart move on my part, right?

Right?

And yet, a little part of me was really hoping this would be the one time in our entire relationship that The Husband would not use his “I’m Observant, not gay” powers of observation to scope out the new kicks I was planning on sneaking in.

I didn’t make it two steps in the door when he oh-so-casually says, “New shoes, huh?”

Oops.

Keep in mind that I had purposely left the empty box for the Skechers I wore home at the store to try and cover my ass. Not that it mattered. I’ve tried everything, including the classic “Buy It Now and Hide It in My Closet for Three Months” move before walking past The Husband in the shoes/dress/T-shirt/Purse I had thought I had so brilliantly Deep-Covered into my wardrobe only to have to answer a raised eyebrow accompanied by a “And how long have you had that?”

“What?” I’d blurt out in my best “What the hell are you smoking now?” voice.

“The (insert item here) you thought you were gonna get past me.”

“Oh,” eyes wide and oh-so-not-innocent. “I’ve had it for months.” Which was technically true.

Gimme that lie detector!

By this time, he’d be laughing. Hard. “I’m surprised you made it this long before pulling it out. That must have killed you!”

Oh snap.

Busted again.

The Writing in the Mirror

by Pauline Campos

I’m the kind of person who can’t watch a scary movie without tucking the comforter under my feet when I go to sleep for fear the monsters under my bed will gnaw off my toes. Walking out of a dark room also proves itself as a form of entertainment for anyone else in attendance as I inch my way away from the bogeyman hiding in the shadows. He’s never actually reached out and dragged me back into the darkness, mind you, but that’s only because I’m so vigilant.  I mean, how’s he going to surprise me if I’ve trained myself not to blink as I dart my eyes back and forth while keeping my back pressed to the wall until I’ve made it to the stairs and run like a crazy woman while everyone laughs at me?

I’m also the kind of woman who isn’t ashamed to admit I saw a ghost once or that my grandmother smiled at me when I gave her a kiss in her casket. The ghost we call Fred and my in-laws believe he came with the property. He wears a Fedora and a suit and his tie is undone and only shows up to let you know he’s still around. The smile happened when I was six and I thought my grandmother was sleeping and I didn’t understand why everyone was crying. When it was time to go, my mother lifted me up as I requested so I could kiss her and when my lips touched her cheek, she did what she usually did when I kissed her in her sleep and I left the funeral home content in the knowledge that she loved me. 

The point is that I’m a believer. I’m not sure if it’s my open mind or my writer’s imagination or some combination of the two, but when the hair stands up on the back of my neck, I listen. And I can guarantee you that I would not be the chick trying to make my dramatic escape from the ax-wielding maniac while in my high heels if I was a character in a horror movie. I’m not an amateur, you know.

So when I found myself waiting for my boyfriend to come home because my key wouldn’t let me unlock the front door, my first thought (naturally) was that the house was possessed and the evil spirit residing in the home we shared with my future brother-in-law just didn’t want me there. This line of thinking was only reinforced when my boyfriend came home, laughed at me because he thought I had forgotten my house key, and quickly unlocked the door. I let it go the first time it happened, hoping it had just been a fluke, but the next day I found myself on the front porch again furiously trying to make the key work before I had to explain to anyone outside of my own head that I was afraid we were going to have to call in a priest. This time, my boyfriend’s brother rescued me as he let us both in upon his arrival from work. Obviously, the evil spirit in residence only had a problem with me. I was relieved. That meant no one else was in danger.

I was jumpy and hyper vigilant when home alone, always waiting for something to reach out in the darkness. I tried convincing myself it was just new house nervousness. I hadn’t even familiarized myself with the layout enough to not walk into a wall on the way to the bathroom at night yet, so maybe I was just over-reacting? But this theory fell by the wayside as I stood in the bathroom one night, drying off after a hot shower. At first I thought I was imagining things. I wasn’t really seeing letters forming in the steamy mirror, was I? I froze. I may have blinked a few times. And when I opened my eyes the last time, I almost screamed.

“Get Out,” was now clearly written on the mirror. I ran, naked and terrified, across the hall and into the room to wake up my sleeping boyfriend to tell him we had to move and we had to move now before anything terrible happened. I told him that something didn’t want me there and wouldn’t let my key unlock the door there was something evil here and to go look at the mirror. So he did.

And that’s when he started to laugh.

“You need to come see this,” he choked out when he could speak again. I found him in front of the mirror where the words “When you get out of the shower, please make sure to clean up after yourself,” greeted me on the mirror. It had been a household reminder from his brother, written in dry-erase marker and wiped off with a napkin. Obviously, not well enough. The residue from the marker had blocked the condensation from forming where the letters had been, allowing the words to slowly reappear as if written by invisible fingers.

“But..but…how do you explain the key? Something doesn’t want me here!” I insisted. 

He didn’t answer. My boyfriend simply grabbed my hand, led me into the bedroom, and handed me the shiny new key he had left for me on the dresser that I had forgotten to put on my key ring.

The Wishing Balloon

by Pauline Campos

I am the oldest of five and the mother of one. For those of you not familiar with the Number of Siblings to Children Ratio Theory, it basically means that everything I couldn’t have as a kid (because my father would have had to buy or do the same for each sister after me) I do for Buttercup. Pre-school is a perfect example, so I wanted to commemorate the event with a little gift.

I bought a balloon that said, “You are so special to me!” And I presented it to her in class.

Buttercup smiled and tightly held on to the balloon as we walked to the minivan. I tried getting her to tell me about her day, but she kept saying she had to make a wish. I honestly had no idea what she was talking about.

It wasn’t until we got to my van that Buttercup looked up, let go, and wished on her balloon.


As it floated into the clouds, I vaguely remembered her cousin coming to visit. We had gone to a grocery store where they give the kids a free balloon in the checkout and Buttercup lost hers on the way to the car. To calm her down, my nephew told her not to be sad because you could make a wish on a balloon. So she did. And she remembered.

“What did you wish for, baby?” I asked as the heart-shaped balloon floated out of view.


She turned to me and smiled.
“I wished for happiness, Mama.”

The Kindergarten Cookie Caper

by Pauline Campos


It was all about the cookies, I think.

My complete lack of desire to let go of my mother's leg while crying buckets of six-year-old tears until the new kindergarten teacher handed me the basket can't really be otherwise explained.

At least not after the first day.

We moved from Detroit to the suburbs in the middle of my very first year of school. I was the New Girl. And it was terrifying. New house. New city. New neighbors. New faces. It had all seemed very exciting on the walk to the New School on that first day with my mother. It was an adventure! Until she tried to leave.

That's when I screamed bloody murder, wrapped myself around my mother's leg with a force that only the jaws of life could break, and begged her not to leave me. That very memory is the reason I left my own daughter's first preschool drop off stunned stupid that she had run off without a kiss, leaving me happily forgotten, but that's another column.

Mrs. Drapeau, the teacher, knelt down before me, trying to talk me at my own level to make me feel more at home. All I heard was "You...here...Mom...leave...feel better...cookies?" between my wails of agony. I'm sure I made quite the impression on my new classmates.

"Cookies?" I stopped sniffling long enough to blink away the next tear so I could focus. "Who has cookies?"

Mrs. Drapeau stood up, went to her desk, and returned carrying a basket of cookies and juice boxes. She kindly explained that every student took turns bringing in a package of cookies to pass out for snack time each day, and the lucky kid also got to pass them out to the other students! But seeing as I was so upset on my first day, maybe Little Suzie wouldn't mind letting me pass the cookies out for her this time.

I glanced at Little Suzie. She looked pissed. But she was smart enough to force a smile and nod her head. Looking back, I'm assuming that turn of events solidified my future position on the Popularity Totem Pole with Cheerleading Captain Little Suzie graduating from high school still harboring that kindergarten grudge.



Some people's children.

But on that day in 1983, my only thought was Pride in My New Important Job. I was passing out the cookies, people. I was Special. Maybe this place wasn't so bad after all. Maybe tomorrow I would try to be a Big Girl and not cry when Mommy turned to leave and...

Or maybe I wanted to pass out the cookies again.

Every morning I turned on the water works, not even conscious of the fact that I was manipulating the system to increase my own self worth. Pretty impressive for a six-year-old, I think.

Pity, but I lost the ability to cry on cue after I moved on to the first grade. No matter...there were no cookies to pass out.

Pauline M. Campos is a former journalist-turned-stay-at-home-mom to Buttercup. She blogs at Aspiring Mama (Parental Advisory: Occasional F-Bombs Dropped) and can be found on Twitter as @aspiringmama. She has written a book and is currently looking for an agent in the hopes of convincing her mother-in-law that writing in her pajamas  is, in fact, an actual job.

The Squirrel named Stew

by Pauline Campos

Every family has that story that, no matter how many times it’s told, @)never gets old b)always triggers debate on who’s side of the story is actual truth and c)reinforces the fact that it’s only safe to eat meat products at my in-law’s if I have actually seen them purchase it at the grocery store and take it out of the plastic-wrapped packaging upon arrival at home.

Okay, so the last one probably only pertains to me, but when The Father-in-Law is known for his fondness of rabbits and squirrels (keep up with me, class, ‘cuz I’m not talking about Let’s Name it Floppy here. It’s more like I think it Needs More Salt and Maybe Some More Pepper) it’s generally wiser to avoid blindly digging into an offered bowl of mystery stew meat while everyone else stares you down in a ridiculously failed attempt to look nonchalant.

But as a first-generation Mexican-American, I was raised to respect my elders at all costs. This translates into Never Talking Back, Always Calling Any Family Friend As Old As The Parents Tia or Tio, and Eating What’s Been Prepared Even if You Think What Was Prepared Had Probably Been Burying Some Acorns Out Back Before He Got, um…Prepared. 

“Have some more,” said The Father-in-Law jovially. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

I know, I thought. I almost ran over a crazed squirrel trying to escape your yard before becoming the next recipe experiment. I think he was sending out warning squeaks to the neighbor’s squirrels. Out loud I only mm-hhmmed while silently cursing my Need to Please and took another dainty taste. It tasted…cute. I felt sick, but forced a smile. “It’s really good but I’m full right now. We just ate.”

I shot a warning glare at The Husband while The Father-in-Law’s eyes danced in silent victory as he cleared my bowl of It’s Not Squirrel Stew away. The Husband, smart man that he is, didn’t contradict me, saving me the hassle of having to contact a divorce lawyer later that afternoon.

Weeks went by. I stopped worrying about my eternal soul after avoiding enough squirrels in the road to figure my karmic energy had been cleansed, and was only reminded of The Stew I Did Not Actually Like when The Mother-in-Law called to speak to The Husband. It was time to let me in on The Joke.

“Remember that stew Dad had at the house?” The Husband asked me as I heard his mother laughing on the other end of the line. “You liked it, didn’t you?

“Depends,” I said, my arms crossed in front of my chest. Any hope I had that I had let my imagination get the best of me was now dashed. “What was it?”

“Squirrel,” said The Husband, his body doubling over in laughter. “And you liked it!”

“No I didn’t. I was just trying to not hurt his feelings,” I insisted. “I knew it tasted funny when I ate it. I just knew it.”

And this is where the parties involved take sides, leaving me standing alone while they all snicker about Pauline and The Day She Liked (Eating) A Squirrel. 

Pauline M. Campos is a former journalist-turned-stay-at-home-mom to Buttercup. She blogs at Aspiring Mama (Parental Advisory: Occasional F-Bombs Dropped) and can be found on Twitter as @aspiringmama. She has written a book and is currently looking for an agent in the hopes of convincing her mother-in-law that writing in her pajamas  is, in fact, an actual job.

Death Dust

by Pauline Campos

“It tastes like pureed fire ants,” I said, dropping the pizza slice I had been trying to force myself to eat. “Just throw it away. You don’t have to eat it to make me feel better.”

He blinked, not unlike a deer looking into a fast approaching set of headlights. If he stayed still long enough would the car not see him? 

“Are you sure?” He was understandably hesitant. Who could blame him? Before him sat his new 20-something wife who had just spent hours in the kitchen working on a homemade pizza with a made from scratch sauce recipe that had gone horribly wrong. The look of doubt on his face when I told him he was off the hook told me he was pretty sure he had signed something legally obligating himself to pretending to like anything I set down in front of him…at least until I gained 10 pounds and the pressure was off. 

“Yes, I’m sure,” I said. I refused to let myself cry. Just because I had baked a pie so God-awful that I couldn’t even swallow a bite without wanting to vomit didn’t mean I couldn’t hold on to a bit of dignity, right? “It sucks. Just throw it away.”

He didn’t have to be asked a third time. The garbage disposal was erasing any remnants of the nightmare I had prepared and the plates washed before I could wipe away the tear that was dangling from my bottom lashes. Instead of breaking into hysterics, I threw back a glass of wine and poured another.

Seeing me visibly relaxed, my husband decided it was safe to speak. Specifically, he wanted to know what the hell had happened in the kitchen. I wasn’t in the running for my own cooking show based on my culinary talents, but I knew how to follow a recipe. 

I leaned back against the kitchen counter to think where I had gone wrong while sipping my wine. I compared my shopping list against the ingredients listed in the recipe. I went over my steps and the recipe directions. It all checked out.

Except…

“This is probably what did it,” I squeaked out, realizing my mistake.

“This” was my mother-in-law’s homemade dehydrated habanero peppers, more affectionately known as Death Dust. A little goes a long way in a stockpot full of chili and a lot makes a single batch of pizza sauce taste like, well, pureed fire ants.

“How much did you use?” He asked. “You know you’re only supposed to throw a pinch of that stuff into anything if you want to add some heat, right? A pinch.

He demonstrated for effect.

“Well, I started with a pinch. Then I thought a inch was for pansies so I added more,” my voice breaking. “And now I’m a horrible failure and can’t cook and please don’t tell anyone about this ever because Oh My God did that pizza taste like…like…”

“Pureed fire ants?”  What a good husband. Thanks for reminding me. 

“Yeah, that.”

He laughed. I cried. 

And then we called for take out.


Pauline M. Campos is a former journalist-turned-stay-at-home-mom to Buttercup. She blogs at Aspiring Mama (Parental Advisory: Occasional F-Bombs Dropped) and can be found on Twitter as @aspiringmama. She has written a book and is currently looking for an agent in the hopes of convincing her mother-in-law that writing in her pajamas  is, in fact, an actual job.

A Verbal Snapshot

by Pauline Campos


“Mama?” Buttercup’s voice is ending on an up-note. Her eyebrows are scrunched up and her lips puckered in that cute and pensive way three-year-olds are prone to when pondering Life’s Big and Very Important Questions.

“Yes,” I ask, as I throw my bra into the hamper in the bathroom-adjacent closet and step into the bath tub for the same kind of quality time I grew up with. For just a moment, I remember sneaking glances at my mother’s body. The stretch marks. The boobs that kinda just hang there. The baby pooch that never really goes away unless a plastic surgeon is involved. In my Bath Time with Mommy days, there was no judgment. I just accepted her body as fact. But as I grew into a snippy little twenty-something and said, “I do,” I was damned sure I wouldn’t “let myself go” like she had. Catching my reflection in the mirror as I sit down, I quickly send off a mental “I get it now, Mom” into the Universe, hoping for some karmic cleansing.

“Mama?” She hesitates as I sit down.

This is unusual. I wait for it, her uncertainty almost giving it away.

“Mama, why are your chichis down there? They are supposed to be up!” She emphasis the statement by holding her upturned palms near her own baby-flat chest.

I want to say they used to be. I want to explain the everything in between Then and Motherhood. I want to tell her that they used to be, right after I had my formerly ginormous GG’s reduced to perky little DD’s when I was 24. I want to say that DD’s and gravity aren’t meant to get along when silicone isn’t involved. But I can’t. She’s too young to care why bras exist. And I figure I should wait until she is at least 16 to start blaming her for my body doing the whole Softening of Motherhood thing. Which means that the bra is the only thing I can go with.

“That’s why Mama wears a bra, baby,” I say, trying not to laugh. “to help keep them up here.”

I demonstrate by lifting the girls back to their pre-Buttercup positions. While doing so, I make a mental note of reminding The Husband that he promised me a boob lift after I push the next kid out.

“Oh,” she says, still staring at my naked body. “Will a bra help your belly, too?”


Guest blogging for Ermas this month is Pauline M. Campos, a former newsroom journalist turned stay-at-home-writer-mama with a blog that gives her the instant publication gratification while waiting for that book deal dream to come true. She also loves long-winded sentences, making up twitter hash tags, and likes to typo in her spare time. Find her at www.aspiringmama.com or on twitter as @aspiringmama.