Mother Of Five

The mother of five had a long day, and yet, not even noon. Well, a long week, really. Honestly, every week, but let's focus on what's at hand. Of the numerous issues, the accumulated aggravations, and perpetually recurring chores, the task of the moment was a recent bill. Macy's. She enjoyed this delightful store. A fun place to browse for clothes and household decor, pick up a thing or two as needed, of course, only during those rare occasions when she actually had time with which to browse. That infrequency of available time made it special.

The bill was received in last week's mail. A billing error was noted and today was designated for resolution seeking. The error was a double charge. Same amount, same date. Certainly just a mistake, but a phone call was necessitated for a fix, and in the midst of a busy week, because every week for her is busy. Today, though, it gets done, along with all the regular chores which continue to resurface day after day, week after week. She was tenacious, efficient, and determined to see this through to its fruitful completion, as she would everything else.

She had five youngsters, two at home and three more in school. The two were napping, thankfully. It had never occurred to her in younger years, as a young mother, when she had just the one, then two kids, and so forth, in those years past with a growing brood in her future. Of all the conceptions, she had never conceived of how thankful she would one day be for the institution of grade school. From the hours of 8 am to 3 pm she had help. Familial assistance with at least some of her kids contained in school.

School days, those seven blessed hours were her opportunity to get things done. Her To-Do list could entail any of a wide variety of tasks from laundry, vacuuming, grocery shopping, washing floors, meal preparation, ironing, diaper duty, school drop offs and pick ups, you know, household tasks. Today, though, it was the phone call to Macy's. Must resolve before that bill comes due, and that date was encroaching more quickly than tasks were getting completed, despite her vaunted efficiency. So goes her frustration.

The two youngest were down for a nap. She viewed nap time as her daily superpower, her efficiency boost. If lucky, maybe an hour of napping peace while she stepped up her game, the wonder woman she is. Nap time allowed her to tackle tough tasks unencumbered, those requiring some concentration. Something of which she found herself to be in short supply with so many little ones afoot.

Looking into her future, there appeared no break on the horizon, even with a fourth entering grade school next year. How to get it all done and have the strength to do it again another day, every day, she pondered, but only briefly because there was too much to do, and very little time leftover for the luxury of a good pondering.

She dialed the phone number indicated on the bill, engaged the phone system matrix to speak with a representative about the billing error. 'A human, please,' she thought to herself. She was flustered at this additional chore, this phone call, this having to deal with a human, when she already had too many items from which to choose needing her dangerously diluted attention. Her patience, typically commendable, even under her busy familial constraints, was running short today.

She was on hold, looking at her watch. As each minute on hold ticked off, her kids' nap time wound down by that same corresponding minute. Time to seek resolution was slipping away, as if seeping through a sieve, before even having a chance to engage. Finally, there it was, the representative picked up!

"Hello, thank you for waiting. How may I help you," asked the phone representative.

"Hi, yes, thank you. There was a billing error on my current bill. Can you please fix it," started the mother of five, no time for pleasantries, straightforward was the way.

"I'll certainly try to do that. First, what's that account number?"

"I've already provided that on the automated phone system before it put me on hold."

"Thank you, and I'm sorry for the inconvenience. The account number didn't carry forward. Will you please provide it again?"

The mother of five did as requested, then the questioning promptly resumed.

"Just a few questions, please. They're needed for verification."

"OK, if that's needed. What information do you need," pursed lips in an effort to contain her waning patience.

"What is your PIN?"

"My what?"

"Your phone PIN, ma'am. You might have set that up when you first opened the account," offered the phone rep hoping this would provide the useful nudge needed to move the phone call forward.

"I don't understand what you're asking me," replied the mother, nervously looking at the baby monitor on the kitchen countertop, thankfully still quiet.

"Your PIN. It would be a numerical code you entered. This is used for the verification process," explaining further, knowing instinctively this was not going to progress as hoped.

"This account was opened more than five years ago. I don't remember any PIN," losing her cool in just the slightest. A kink in the armor, if you will. A budding impatience broaching the surface of her consciousness, but she must retain her cool long enough to complete the task. "Can you please tell me my PIN so I can write it down for next time," asked the mother.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, you need to tell me the PIN. I can't tell you."

"Well, I don't understand what that is. Is there another question you can ask instead," an edge in her voice as she looked at the clock knowing nap time was getting dangerously close to concluding.

"There is a backup question. I'll ask you that," offered the phone rep.

"Yes, please, I just hope this won't take long."

"What are the birthdates of your children."

"The what? You want the birthdate? For which child."

"All the birthdates," the phone rep said, closing her eyes and cringing to herself as she said it.

With that, the mother of five was on the cusp of snapping. Her mind going through the mental gymnastics being triggered with this engagement. All the birthdates?! Who are these people to think a busy mom can have such details available on a whim, at a moment's notice, when there is so much she already has juggling in the air at any time. Dammit if this load was not one load too far, this unreasonable ask. 

Slowly, a deep breath to try to keep calm, without so much as a peep at first, the five-second pause before the storm, but it was too much. Her brain wrapped itself around the roadblock to her resolution. There was no time for such bullshit as is being requested by her phone foe. She exhaled. There was nothing left to unravel. This ball of yarn had become completely unwound. Her shoulders slumped. It was too much and too far. Her patience had leaked out as if from a compromised helium balloon. Then she fired back.

"All the birthdates?! I have five of 'em! I can't remember all of them off hand," her tone of voice and cadence changed as if she had transformed into a leather-clad super villain. She might as well have been wielding a bicycle chain swinging over her head looking for blood and assessing how to inflict maximum damage.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, that's the back up question," an uncomfortable pit in her belly, feeling solidarity for the mom.

"Certainly you're joking! Five birthdates," she exclaimed before redirecting. Task completion must be the focus. Bring it back under control. "How about the years born instead," hoping to broach a more attainable qualifying threshold.

The phone representative, it turned out, was no foe. She was a sister-in-arms living under familiar familial constraints, to the point that going to work was sometimes a treat to get out from under the endless domestic tasks necessitated by her own children, an escape, a reprieve. Five birthdates on the whim. Yes, the phone rep knew it was baloney, these protocols passed down by the elites in corporate's ivory tower. She could barely remember the birthdates of her own kids under the tension of this phone call.

"Sister, you're absolutely right. Tell me those birth years, please. Nail those and we'll consider you verified," crossing this threshold into decency, helping out the mother in her moment of distress. Screw the protocols, she would do the right thing instead.

In the background a baby monitor started to sound off. One of the children was awake, not yet crying, but soon would be, then the second would follow. Resolution was underway, but it must be prompt. Her stress seemingly never ending. 

[This is based on a real life scenario as recently told by my Mom, probably took place in the late 1970s, my four siblings and I were youngsters. A Macy's billing error to resolve. She specifically recalled the phone rep asking for ALL FIVE birthdates. Mom got upset at the audacity of asking for All five, let the phone rep know it, then pivoted to offering the birth years. Mom was laughing about it now, 50 years after the fact. My parents had five of us, and it was Mom maneuvering all us monkeys every day, and still, she was nails, never flinched, and got things done, even brought that phone verification conundrum to its successful resolution. wdk]

Tell Me About Your Book Podcast

The latest podcast interview is now live for my novel Magglio Cervantes! The host and I spoke about the writing process, the importance of having purpose, and the novel. Thank you to the gracious Oaky Tyree, host of the Tell Me About Your Book podcast.

[Magglio Cervantes, the Amazon link]

The first contact with the host was last November, I emailed her pitching myself for consideration as a podcast guest. A reply email instructed me to complete and return an interview request form. With those additional details a date was set. The podcast recording took place on April 2 where we spoke via Zoom, the host from her home in Houston, Texas, and the audio was recorded for the podcast.

My preparation in the weeks leading up to our recording date included my morning walks with Ghost Dog, our German Shepherd / Husky. While walking I practiced responses to prospective interview questions pertaining to the writing of Magglio Cervantes. I had listened to many of the Tell Me About Your Book episodes, and that allowed me to become familiar with the format and anticipate a few questions.

Much respect to my pleasant and gracious host. Oaky maintains an impressively busy schedule with a full-time job, then in her personal time, she records weekly podcast interviews and conducts all the editing before posting the episodes online.

Please click [THIS LINK] to listen to the Magglio Cervantes podcast episode.

Meat Protocols

Her food-related peculiarities were sometimes astonishing in their absurdity, yet held a certain charm and were always amusing. At least, if you're only observing them as opposed to being the one relegated to living out the confining culinary proclivities.

She was a meat eater, this one, but such inclinations were not to be fulfilled without first being safely contained by a battery of safeguards. The meat eating was bound to certain strict rules. She was nutritiously desirous of meat's nourishing protein-based benefits. But only so long as it did not in any way resemble its original animal form.

A hamburger, for example, was a viable dining option, but not a filet or a steak, nor even a steak sandwich. Too closely resembling their original animal state. Ground beef, though, was all good, as it fell safely outside the confining codicils and mandates. Shredded beef tacos were helplessly disallowed.

Similarly, scrambled eggs were a definite go, but not a hard boiled egg. Again with the resemblance restriction. Egg salad was authorized, though with the requirement that the egg be sufficiently sliced and diced beyond any possible recognition.

Then there were the chicken and pork, but you get the idea. Pork chops are a no, but yes to liverwurst, should she, somehow, have a desire to consume such a thing. Chicken on the bone is a no, as is a drumstick, the chicken leg, not the musical instrument accessory, but a chicken taco from any fast-food restaurant presented nothing in the way of a gastronomic hurdle.

Additionally, during the meal, a person was disallowed from asking a question bringing attention to the fact of the flesh.

'How is the sandwich,' was a legitimate and allowable probe.

'How is the tuna sandwich,' was illegitimate. Such a precise query raising awareness of the animal comprising the sandwich would result in putting it down, a polite wiping of the mouth, terminally concluding the sandwich, then retreating to the side dishes, conscientiously making not a stink over the unknown party foul. Unknown, because really, who possibly could know these ridiculously intricate dining rules. She was absolutely not in the habit of pregaming her dining partners on the rules of the meal.

Furthermore, she would eat tuna at almost any opportunity, was her hankering so highly charged for this fish, but not a delicious tuna steak. A robustly mixed tuna salad was a yes, while a tin of tuna was not possible because the tasty skeins of the tuna cuttings were too close to original form, went the recurring limitations to be allowed passage through the strictly discerning gullet.

A work around was that she might request assistance from a friend or guest, if their visitation was properly timed to coordinate with the consumption of a can of tuna. The friend might be officiously asked to open a tin, drain the undesirable tuna juice in which it was packed, then "thoroughly mix the tuna so that it no longer looks anything like it was, a fish. Mash it up until it looks like it could be cat food. Then please empty it into that bowl," pointing to a bowl she had reached down from the cabinet while issuing the careful and important preparation instructions, "Then just leave it on the counter. I'll take it from there. And really, thank you. You don't understand the extent of your help."

So went the culinary matrix and fog of her daily nutritional existence. Seemingly always something that needed to be maneuvered or a food conundrum to clear.

Ridiculous and completely endearing, but there would be no complaint emanate from her. She'd come to peace with the conditions and cumbersome self-imposed rules. She accepted them and went forward through this caloric complexity with the untroubled nonchalance of acceptance won over many years of fastidious practice rather than strategically tacking back to establish a tiny beachhead from which to regain lost ground. There would be no challenging the considerable friction, the kind of thing from which almost anyone else was oblivious and free.

To most people it was simply food. It comes from animals, yes, and if we were not supposed to eat animals, they might contend, then they would not be made of meat. To which she would add her own flair, if we are supposed to eat animals, then they would not be made to look like animals.

[I dined not long ago with a friend and his wife when a meat-eating hang-up was revealed. Meat served in a format too closely resembling its natural state decreased the eating desirability to nil. Good-natured guffawing and an irresistible Q&A revealed much of the above. Anyway, that meal's discourse was a wonderful and fantastic inspirational treat. -wdk]

Unlaundered Shorts, the short stories

I'm excited and proud to announce the release of my second book! Unlaundered Shorts is live on Amazon. [Fun note, that's my Dad's profile on the cover.]

This is a collection of 23 short stories. The unique feature of this book, following each story is an explanation of its inspiration. I wanted to share the thought behind the stories and enjoyed adding their inspiring explanations behind the writing process.

Contained within the pages of Unlaundered Shorts are a bad batch of clowns, Rudolph the red nosed reindeer all grown up and lashing back, Abe Lincoln as a podcast guest, cows going extinct, a troop of sailing monkeys, Popeye the Sailor in real life, Superman as a pranking collegiate, Mother Theresa behaving poorly, dinosaurs, dog heaven, and a family that bonds over riding bicycles in the house.

Regarding the title, Unlaundered Shorts, these short stories are deemed unlaundered because they are not intended for the gentle reader. While these are not meant for bedtime reading to the kids, there are two child-friendly stories. The Adventures of Tedesco and Adventures of Jackie were both written for my own kids when they were young. The other shorts, though, consider yourself amply cautioned.

I'm proud of these stories and hope you have the opportunity to enjoy them. And if you do, please consider leaving a Star-rating review on Amazon or Good Reads.

Bubble Head

 

[photo credit to Men's Health magazine, January February 2023 issue]

That photo's of me from earlier today. My walk to work. Really, I walked to work with my head in a bubble. Well, not the whole way, the last five blocks on the approach to the office.

You know those tasty drinkable yogurts I've been relentlessly talking about for more than a week? I've been gorging on those tasty things, but I'm going to lay off for a while. Here's what happened. 

Not to get too gross, but my sinuses have been extra juicy lately. No runny nose or sickness symptoms or nothing, just, you know, a higher sinus molarity than usual. I'll keep it clean, but you know, lots of fluid. I attribute that increased sinus viscosity to those yogurts. And well, let me get back to the photo.

There's a coffee shop I have a weakness for. ('For which I have a weakness,' my Mom would prompt me. But I digress . . .) It's right there on the way to the office, that busy corner with the blue awning. I bought one of those pumpkin spice lattes with the whipped cream, and added a few shakes from the community chocolate powder. Trigger warning, I know your aversion to the community condiments, but I want to be up front with you. I took a sip upon exiting the shop, a little hot yet, but the deliciousness was totally intact.

I'd resumed my walk to work when I had a sneeze attack. Four or five brief, though violent, sneezes followed by a robust and dramatic denouement. Well, I felt a snot bubble or something shoot from a nostril. Thought it was an embarrassing public snot rocket. But no, as I opened my eyes post sneeze, my vision was mildly obstructed and hearing was also a little muffled, if slightly echoey. People were looking at me, fellow pedestrians, like I was wearing a big red clown nose. Something was clearly awry. 

First off, that really freaked me out because you know how fellow pedestrians here fastidiously abide their own business. No eye contact. An absolute and unspoken rule. Well, all of a sudden, all eyes were on me! I furtively felt for my fly to make sure I wasn't exposed. Then looked behind me to see if I was missing something. Not. After a few steps with no resolution, I walked by a restaurant window and saw my reflection.

Of all the fantastic things. My head was in a bubble!

Two adolescent boys were pointing at me and laughing their heads off. One of them aggressively approached with clearly nefarious intent, based on his body language. He made a rapid, upward swiping motion to pop my bubble! With reflexes quick as a ninja, I deflected his unwanted offensive and retained the bubble.

"Get that weak shit out of here," I said to him, as if having successfully blocked a slam dunk attempt. Then I stared him down, the little punk. I think I've been watching too much playoff hoops. The boys retreated, probably to harm some less skilled and unsuspecting pedestrian.

But that was so out of character for me. You know, I'm not a guy of showy aggression. Something took over me. I don't even know why I was defending it, the bubble. It was instinctive, as if it had become an extension of me, my space. Self-preservation just took over, this unanticipated and sudden need to preserve the bubble. It was totally reflexive.

Anyway, the smiling and pointing continued as I resumed my morning trek. A few people with their laughing and pointing. How sophomoric and childish. They were probably jealous. By this time I had grown attached to it. I was really proud of my bubble. My entire head being encapsulated! You see it in the photo.

It was so big, the bubble, that it was expanding and contracting with each breath. It was working like one of those 19th century submersive diving bells. I didn't know how long the oxygen would hold up, but I was determined to keep this going. Like when you're challenging yourself to eat an entire watermelon in one sitting and you're in a zone. My determination had become steadfast.

It was, thankfully, an un-breezy day. The bubble stayed steady and I held my head up proudly. I felt eight feet tall that morning. I crossed the street at one point and the stopped cars at the intersection started honking their horns at me in appreciation. It was a really fun moment. I raised my hand in an undirected wave of acknowledgment and kept moving.

As I got close to the office, my pal saw me, pointed and smiled. I smiled back with a head nod of assent. He was kind enough to take the above photo. Meanwhile, the pumpkin latte in hand, there was no chance to drink it, of course. I just held the thing like some useless prop. 

The bubble lasted half a day! By lunch time, the air inside was getting very stale. Plus, I was hungry and thirsty. So, I let my boss break the bubble. Which he did, with a finger. He immediately went to wash his hands after I explained that it was a sinus bubble. That first breath of air was so tasty! And cool. Much cooler than what the temperature had climbed to inside the bubble.

My girlfriend thought it was disgusting. My bulbous booger bubble, she called it, but she has a flair for alliteration. I prefer sinus bubble. And she's right, of course, disgusting, but she didn't see it directly. She only saw the photo, not live because she works across town. Probably a good thing, in this case.

There were challenges throughout the day. For example, tying my shoes while sitting at the desk was tough. I had to genuflect, facing the open aisle to keep the bubble from making contact with my keyboard or desk, and without bending down, out of consideration for the bubble, disallowing a visual as my fingers performed the task on the strength of muscle memory. Also, using the restroom presented an awkward dynamic. Fellow patrons granted me a wide berth of a urinal buffer between us. Going through doors was precarious, too, with the added bubble altitude.

Then there was the elevator! You know how people go silent and make a deliberate show of ignoring everyone else. Well, imagine the monumental restraint required for the others to ignore me this morning. I almost burst out laughing during one elevator ride, that silent and what was certainly confused tension. But I held it together, if just only.

There were also close calls, wanting to touch my face and battling back subsequent sneezes. Really, I challenge you, see how long you can go without touching your face, and no sneezing. I managed it and credit my heroic self-control. Also, my recent haircut turned out to be very opportune. That decreased hair circumference was clutch for bubble clearance.

A few times throughout the day, I couldn't help but to think of John Travolta, the star of The Boy In the Plastic Bubble film. Even if his bubble was made of plastic and encapsulated his whole self, not just his head. I submit to you that my feat was tougher to accomplish. I had to manage the thing while still subjected to a full range of motion and an ensemble of people, some of whom lacked empathy.

Like Walt in the office, the prankster. At one point he threw a paperclip at me from over a few partitions and across the room. He missed, thankfully, that dork. Surprisingly, and this was odd, my boss got upset and issued him that crummy project that'd been looming and we'd all been fearing. That was clearly retribution issued due to the failed bubble assault. I don't know the boss' attachment to my bubble, but I liked it.

Anyway, it was an oddly proud day. But really, I'm breaking up with those tasty dessert yogurts. Maybe this is the impetus needed for me to go Greek.

[I saw that photo in the magazine and couldn't turn the page. Then, when I did, I had to turn back to look more. The dude's eye contact demanding attention. Sure, it's an illusion, but what if . . .]