Don't Sleep With a Bubba

by Susan Reinhardt

  There had to be another way.

  Thus entered the newly stolen yardman, who told her about the house down the street with grass greener than anything the human mind could envision, a product of his “environmentally safe” spray-painting services. For less than $500, Sandy could have her front yard and backyard shimmering like a fancy golf course in early June. After days of thinking the man might be nuts, she finally checked out his handiwork.

  She stopped cold and held her breath. The sight before her was spectacular, the answer to all her winter blues. She got out of her golf cart, mode of transportation for these types of neighborhoods, fell to her knees and all but wept.

  A couple of days and hundreds of dollars later, her own yard sparkled like a flawless emerald and neighbors throughout the burb stopped to stare. They pulled over in their golf carts or Mercedes sedans. They squatted in her green Bermuda, sniffing and touching, amusing Sandy’s 3-year-old son.

  “Mama,” he hollered. “We got some gawkers out here.”

  One morning as my sister was coming up the drive, her other next-door neighbor approached, grinning. “Damn, Sandy!” he said. “First, the light show you all had at Christmas. Now this? I left the house this morning and your grass was brown. I know rye doesn’t grow that fast.”

  “Well, Stan,” Sister Sandy said sweetly, “we choose to live in summer over here.”

  Another neighbor, a woman who shuns Sandy from all her social activities, was livid upon seeing summer arrive months early across the street and sprayed “WHORE” in hot pink across the newly painted grass.

  “You tell her,” Sandy said to the friend who’d reported the woman’s ill remarks and crimes of graffiti, “that as soon as they come out with synthetic leaves for the trees, I’ll get them, too.”

  Meanwhile, she’s searching for a sign, something along the lines of, WET PAINT . KEEP OFF THE GRASS !”

  When Wig Man David left her and Sandy fell from upper class to middle class but gained joy and a great husband in the process, she decided to have a grand yard sale featuring high-dollar items from the division of assets with the first David. These yard sale throwaways made my own furnishings look as if they’d been pulled from the Clampetts’s cabin before their bubbling crude came up from the ground and made them roadkill-eatin’ zillionaires.

  One of Sandy’s items that did not sell was a sofa. Only let’s call it a sofer because in its present and festering condition, one simply can’t say it properly. While the sofer had once been a glorious item in her living room, her two rambunctious sons had turned the couch into a shredded and stained abomination, and the cat’s scratching and tee-teeing on it didn’t add to its appeal.

  Sister Sandy drove to Foam and Fabric to buy an iron-on patch kit to try to fix the holes in her sofer and keep the stuffing from popping out to no avail.

  By the end of the day, not a soul offered a dime for that couch. People were avoiding it the way they did a purse I bought off eBay that smelled like a fish tank packed with soggy guinea pigs.

  “We had to put up a sign and drag it to the road,” Sandy said, laughing so hard she could barely get her words out. “David wrote FREE TO A GOOD HOME in black Sharpie and duct-taped it to the couch, then put it out for the garbage collectors.”

  Later that evening, they ran some errands and crossed their fingers someone would have snatched the sofer by the time they returned. They knew that their uptight, nouveau riche neighbors weren’t going to be happy about having the beat-up couch putting a blight on their fairly fancy ’hood.

  “We rounded the corner, and it was still there,” Sandy said. An idea struck. Why not have a redneck party and mix up a batch of margaritas and invite the neighbors out to the sofer for a get-together?

  “I had made the pitcher of ’ritas,” she said, “and David and I sat on the couch by the roadside and waited for people to come. One neighbor showed up drinking a Big Check cola. It was hilarious.”

  That night everyone moved the couch into the neighborhood’s decorative and lovely gazebo and continued with the festivities. But by the next afternoon, one of the new neighbors wasn’t happy.

  “Sandy,” she said, wearing enough gold to rival a pawnshop display case and sipping Zinfandel bobbing with ice cubes. “Is that your couch in the gazebo?”

  “Yes. They were supposed to pick it up yesterday.”

  “Well, I would certainly hope so. This type of activity is frowned upon here.”

  My sister isn’t one to tolerate snoots. “Then smile, instead,” she said. “Might make you look younger.”

  The next day someone finally loaded up the sofer and gave it a good home.

  The neighbor returned with more to say. “I’m so glad they came and got it because I didn’t know what I was going to have to say to you. What you did and then your harsh remarks aren’t going to make for pleasant encounters between the two of us.”

  Sandy smiled sweetly, not wanting to tell this uppity woman that this neighborhood was like a housing project compared to her former mansion. “We’re pretty new in the neighborhood and didn’t know many people, but that old sofa brought us together with all sorts of folks we’d never met. They say friends are the gloves God wears when he touches us. I say a couch is the lasso he swings when roping us closer to our neighbors. If you’re unhappy with this, stay indoors or complain to the property management company. Good luck there. I’m on the board.”

  The woman stalked off in her stilettos, spilling wine on her fairly green but unpainted grass.

  The incident gave Sandy another crazy idea of hauling out her old Maytags so the neighbors across the street in the other development will come say howdy, maybe even bring a pie along to be more welcoming.

  “I’ve been wanting to meet them for three years. If they won’t bake me a pie, maybe I could make them a batch of pancakes and write Jesus across the top in maple syrup.”

  The Nuttiest Preschool Teacher in the World

  M y sister is crazy just like I am. She also has the biggest heart and imagination of anyone I know. She’s so much fun I can’t stop laughing every time I’m around her, even though we are so different in many ways.

  I’m the moderate Democrat my daddy nicknamed “Pinky Jane” after hearing Archie Bunker calling Gloria and Meathead that one night, referring to Jane Fonda’s antics. Sister Sandy is the conservative Republican given to the occasional bout of proselytizing.

  No matter, she’s as twisted as I am. But even though we twist, it all ends up straight; we just have much more fun than a lot of stiffs afraid of tossing Drs. Spock, Sears, Brazelton, etc., down the drain and going with the flow.

  Because my sister is also a good writer, and because I’ve had my period THREE times this month and a cyst on an ovary the size of a full-grown Yorkie, because I can’t write another word without crying or cussing, this chapter will be one of those, “By Sandy Gambrell Edinger as told to Susan Gambrell Reinhardt.”

  I’ve always read those strange bylines and never knew what they meant, and still don’t but here you have it: the story of my sister, the Preschool Assistant Extraordinaire.

  For the past year or so, she’s somehow gone from the lap of luxury (during her marriage to rich Wig Man David, or Daddy Warbucks), to the lap of the working world after marrying the wonderful and delightful Internet David. That’s right, two Davids. Makes it easy on the family.

  Her job is at a very ritzy and Ch
ristian preschool. She works with the 2-and 3-year-olds with a licensed teacher who has NEVER come across anything like my wild and unconventional sister and her way with the children.

  In her own words, with a few of mine added, since this is one of those “as told to” stories, I’m going to let her have the page.

  By Sandy Edinger, preschool assistance extraordinaire, as told to Susan Reinhardt, preschool fool, who now knows what those teachers were REALLY thinking as they peered in my child’s lunch box.

  Snack Time

  It’s always interesting to see what the mothers pack their little ones for snack time. We only have their little darlings for three short hours, but some mothers pack as if their child was going to a concentration camp. We always send the food not eaten home as a hint to mom that maybe she’s packing too much. Next, we politely tell them that their child is not eating all of the smorgasbord she has so lovingly created. After that, their snack becomes fair game.

  “Samantha’s mom packed grapes, cheese, carrots, pretzels and goldfish. I’m eating the grapes. She’s got juice anyway,” I say.

  “Get the pretzels for the snack drawer,” chimes Sally, my coworker.

  By the end of the year the snack drawer is full of junk food we have taken to feed the poor child whose horrible mother forgets to pack snacks. It’s funny, too, to see just which kids get what for snack. We have a child who is extremely cute and chubby. Everyone thinks he looks just like a Cabbage Patch Doll. It is a problem for the parents because the majority of that cuteness comes from the rolls of fat that testify to his eating habits.

  Oh, yeah, it’s cute to see that chubby little cherub, but he is indeed overweight and it shows during gym time, not to mention diaper time. As a result of previous experiences with the plump and precious, we came up with a new practice: snack modification. Snack modification goes something like this:

  “John brought sausage biscuits and Chips Ahoy! for snack with chocolate milk. What’s in the snack drawer?”

  “Hurl the biscuit. I’m getting pretzels for him. See if Lisa has extra fruit.”

  Circle Time

  Circle time is when Sally teaches the curriculum and I practice crowd control. As one can imagine, getting a dozen 2-and 3-year-olds to sit still for more than two minutes can be a challenge. Having them sit without probing bodily orifices is even more daunting a task. This is where I developed a little curriculum of my own.

  One day during Circle Time, and right after a particularly nasty round of bad colds had circulated throughout the class population, little fingers were working overtime in the nasal regions. After forcing about six hands down and sending several children to the tissue box, I noticed William, the prepster. Little Will’s finger had completely disappeared into his nostril. Giant bulges were appearing on the side of his nose where he was working. For some reason I was fascinated by his work. Boldly, he dug deeper than any of the other kids dared go. Sally was distracted by my unusual calm and attention towards one child so she glanced in the direction of my gaze. She, too, was mesmerized.

  We both watched the craftsman at work. The frantic digging seemed to take forever. And then suddenly there it was. On the tip of his tiny finger shone a prize-winning nasal creation.

  That was my reality check. Grabbing him by the wrist so that this tantalizing morsel wouldn’t make it into his mouth, I shouted, “He scored!!” as I whisked him to the tissue box.

  That was the day I had had enough. My new curriculum was born: “Proper Picking.”

  In fact, the first lesson was held that day. When Will came back, I interrupted class. I had the children stand up and told them we were going to learn how to properly pick our noses. Did they not know that the number one cause of nosebleeds in young children was caused by digital trauma?

  I said, “My goodness, you are all just a bunch of pickers, aren’t you?”

  And Little Savannah replied, “We are, aren’t we, Mrs. Sandy?”

  After teaching the children to grab a tissue before probing, we put the system into practice. Now we applaud “proper picking” each time we catch our children grabbing a tissue first.

  “Hooray! Hooray! Carly is the proper picker of the DAY!”

  Word of the Day

  For some reason, Sally likes to teach the children a “three-dollar” Word of the Day. She always chooses words like “hilarious” or “imagination.” Then she uses the word frequently throughout our day, having the children repeat the sentence. I like to mess her up some days by taking control of the task of coming up with the word of the day. Once, my Word of the Day was “rodent.” Another time it was “bunion.”

  “We will be feasting on rodent stew tonight, children,” she might say. “Rodents are the other white meat and can be found late at night or before dawn on most roadways.”

  Or, better still, she’ll say: “There’s nothing quite like a large bunion with which to scare off a potentially fine male suitor. Girls, remember proper foot care. Select the correct shoes and you shall be BUNION FREE!”

  (Note from me, the real author…I’m afraid my sister’s days at the preschool may be numbered.)

  Preschool Penis Envy

  In preschool there are scheduled potty breaks. State regulations require that we leave the door open so, on occasion, one child will wander in while another is doing his business. One day, Tony, a beautiful African American boy, was tinkling. Now, everyone has heard the saying about how African Americans have been blessed in the groin area. Let me say this before anyone who is extrasensitive gets their dander up. I’m not, by any stretch of the imagination, a racist.

  All I’m saying is that we’ve all heard that wonderful rumor about the African American penis. You know you have. Now, I’m the one who usually handles potty time. I have seen all the boys go tinkle, and wieners of all shapes and sizes. I have two boys of my own, so seeing a penis is nothing new to me. However, on this particular day, Sally was doing potty duty. As Tony was going tinkle, little Joey wanders in and decides to take on half of the potty. Sally turns around to correct the situation just in time to hear Joey, mouth gaping and eyes wide, screaming, “Wow, that’s a big, giant penis!”

  As Sally rushes in, she catches a glimpse of Tony’s prize region and her face contorts to the mirror image of little Joey’s. Flustered, she yells “SANDY, you’ve gotta see Tony’s penis. I, I, I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s so much bigger than my son’s was! I think it’s the size of my husband’s.”

  I had already seen Tony’s penis so its magnitude was not news to me. However, I like to mess with Sally, so I casually walked over to the scene.

  Tony was just standing there, typical grin on his face, adorable as ever. I said, “Tony, you’ve got it going on, don’t ya, little man? You’re packing some heat!”

  He just smiled as he dried his little hands by the sink and said, “Mrs. Sandy, I packin’ some heat!”

  A Case of OAC

  One of my major frustrations is when the industrious and talented main teacher, Sally, chooses what I call an overly ambitious craft. An OAC is a craft that is way above the fine-motor-skills capability for this age group. This means that it is actually she and I who end up doing most of the work for the children while the rest of the class plays at their centers or picks boogers.

  I am always hinting to Sally by saying things like, “Sally, don’t you think your need to use a hot glue gun, barbed wire, a circular saw and a reproduction of the el
ectric chair for this project is a major indicator that this is really not for the twos and threes?”

  The thought that we may be losing control can also occur on rainy days when outside playtime is canceled. Apparently this feeling is shared by all of the classes who exist together on the lower level of our school. The only time teachers seem to arrive early is when it is raining. The competition for time with the electric babysitter (TV set) is fierce. The glow box, as I like to call the television, is great for those rainy days or those days when you need to finish an OAC.

  Since teachers have to sign out the only glow box we all share, it is not uncommon to see them running in the building a good fifteen minutes before their scheduled time. Sally has been known to watch the weather report at night and then drive over to school just to sign us up. You just have to just love her.

  Potty Training

  I am shocked at how long parents are waiting to potty train their kids nowadays. Last year I had our entire class off diapers by Christmas. This year has been a struggle. In particular, we have three boys who just don’t want to cooperate. Since they are all well over 3 years old, this is immensely frustrating. I’m always on the lookout for the “dook stance.”

  The dook stance is named for dogs and how they wander off to find a special place, stretch up into that tall, humped-back pose, and with an intense facial grimace, strain to push out their load. When you see a dog in that position, you know what’s coming. It’s the same with a child. They wander away from the pack, stand up tall, sometimes holding on to a chair or table for stability’s sake, and with little faces turning red from strain, squeeze out their payloads.

  When Sally and I spy the dook stance, panic ensues. “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, Sandy, John’s in the dook stance. Hurry!” I grab little Johnny and whisk him to the pot. Sometimes we make it; most times we do not. I lift Johnny up onto the changing table—holding on to him with one hand, leaning out the door for air from time to time—and change him, all the while complaining that I might as well be changing my husband who is 6 feet 4 inches and 250 pounds.