The Meat and Potatoes of Life

by Molinari, Lisa Smith;

  Throughout the spring, our new dog shed a hair here and there, but we were too busy dealing with other puppy-related issues such as potty training and wound care from the playful nips of his needle-sharp teeth to notice.

  Then summer came. Moby turned six months, and to celebrate his follicles apparently decided to retire. Accordingly, his stiff little yellow hairs were granted their freedom to explore every nook and cranny of our household.

  It all happened quite suddenly. One day, to praise Moby for returning the pair of underwear he had stolen from Hayden’s room, I reached down to stroke his back. He gave me several licks to the face before I noticed I had a veritable catcher’s mitt of dog hair covering my hand.

  Since then, dog hair has permeated every aspect of our lives.

  First thing in the morning, my scratchy throat was the sure sign I’d inhaled several hairs in the middle of the night, triggering sudden coughing fits. When I shook the covers to make our bed, puffs of hair became airborne, creating a cyclone of dog hair that glowed visibly in the morning light, before gently drifting back down to settle on our bedspread, ready to be inhaled another night.

  Hair floating in my morning coffee either got fished out with a finger or ended up on my tongue. Strangely, if it ended up in my mouth I could feel it, but somehow couldn’t seem to find it. Eventually, I swallowed and hoped dog hair didn’t have too many carbs.

  For the rest of the day, I found mats of dog hair in the lint trap, tumbleweeds drifting down the hallway, tufts on the upholstery, balls on the bathroom rug, blankets in the vacuum filter, tangles on the fan blades, and a generous sprinkling of hair on carpets, furniture, and fixtures.

  Also, thanks to my unfortunate mistake of allowing Moby to ride along in the minivan, anyone who entered our vehicle got out looking like Chewbacca.

  I didn’t think it was canine-ly possible for a dog to shed so much, much less for it to end up on top of our refrigerator, baked into the meatloaf, or woven into my toothbrush bristles.

  In a strange and incredibly annoying sort of way, I thought, dog shedding is quite miraculous.

  I knew it would be a miracle if I survived the process without hacking up a hairball myself. But in the meantime, I’d have no choice but to love every hair on—or off—Moby’s adorable head.

  SEASON 5 EPISODE 9

  FOR PITY’S SAKE

  Trailing tissues behind, I burst through the base clinic doors five minutes past my appointment time. “Sorry, I’m late,” I croaked to the military medical corpsman at the family practice desk. He directed me to the waiting area.

  Fishing another crumpled Kleenex from my pocket, I nestled in to read juicy gossip about The Bachelor from a dog-eared waiting room copy of US magazine, just as someone bellowed from behind me, “Lisa Molinari?”

  Dang.

  With my legs dangling like a child from the papered examining table, I waited patiently for the doctor’s arrival, mulling over the possible outcomes.

  With this terrible cough, sore throat, and congestion, it must be very serious. One listen to my chest and surely, she will prescribe antibiotics and steroid treatments. Hmm … she might very well diagnose pneumonia and order me to spend a week in the hospital under an oxygen tent, so I’d better think of someone who could stop by to walk the dog, I thought.

  As I envisioned myself securely ensconced in sterile plastic while friends and family visited with chocolate milkshakes, Dr. Jenkins entered the room in a hurried swish.

  “Hello, Mrs. Molinari. What brings you in today?”

  I was always one of those people who believe all stories should be told properly. Even the tiniest detail could be essential in painting the right picture, conveying the correct tone, and maintaining complete accuracy.

  “Well, Doc, it all started last Monday,” I began. I told her all about how Francis has been gone, how tired I’ve been lately, that I may have picked up something at Lilly’s high school which is a veritable petri dish by the way, that my to-do list is a mile long, etcetera, etcetera.

  Much to my surprise, Dr. Jenkins didn’t seem to be listening. As I was detailing the issues I’d been having with my minivan’s steering, she asked with her back to me, “What color is your sputum?”

  Answering that question required admitting to shamelessly inspecting the unmentionable globs I’d spit into a sink or blown into tissues. Everyone had done it, but couldn’t the doctor just take my word for it that I was very sick? Assuming she needed another detailed explanation, I went on, “Well, let’s see, I blew my nose in church on Sunday, and wasn’t able to take a look until I got home, and—”

  Halfway through explaining a particular shade of olive green, Dr. Jenkins turned around and came at me with a reflex hammer, repeatedly rapping at my face with the pointed end. “Does this hurt?” she asked between blows. For a split second, I pondered how one might answer such a stupid question.

  Hell, yes! was just too obvious, and asking, I don’t know, does this hurt? as I kicked her in the shin seemed too hostile, so I went for, “Is the Pope Catholic?”

  By now I could tell that this doctor operated with the fundamental belief that all patients were hypochondriacs, wimps, and liars with nothing better to do than to spend hours in base clinics feigning illnesses, just so they could wait for more hours in the pharmacy for antibiotics they don’t need, which would eventually result in the spread of antibiotic-resistant super-bugs that would soon infect and destroy all of mankind.

  As I began to snort and suck at the back of my throat in an attempt to bring up or down some kind of concrete proof to make my case, Dr. Jenkins said, “Your chest sounds clear, so I’ll treat you for viral bronchitis. Pump the fluids and Mucinex.” She was gone in a swish.

  I wondered if she’d question her Hippocratic oath when she discovered I had to be airlifted to the ER for intravenous antibiotics later that night.

  No such luck. Five days later, the raspy voice, the sore throat, the barking cough, and the technicolor phlegm had all but disappeared. I had to admit, Dr. Jenkins was right. Still, I ruminated, shouldn’t doctors realize the proper treatment for moms who are alone and sick is sometimes simply a little sympathy?

  Chocolate milkshakes wouldn’t hurt either.

  SEASON 5 EPISODE 10

  THE BOY IS BACK IN TOWN

  There were times when we had to avoid a certain room in our creaky old house. I told people it was a dangerous hazard, a treacherous obstacle, a toxic wasteland, and advised those who entered to wear eye protection and use a gas mask.

  Buried deep in debris and dirty gym socks was the creature who was responsible for turning that otherwise livable room into a veritable landfill every time he came home from college: our son, Hayden.

  Every time Hayden left to go back to college, it took me a month to turn his bedroom into an acceptable guest room. It wasn’t just a matter of cleaning—more like the disaster restoration services that trained professionals performed after fires, floods, or lethal mold infestations.

  The room stayed clean until Hayden came home from college on break, and the cycle repeated itself all over again.

  I had placed clean sheets on the bed and tidied the room before Hayden came home. But after a few days, the mattress was bare of linens, which were presumably thrown off in the middle of the night and lay crumpled in a dusty corner. The bed was strewn with gum wrappers, cords, empty soda cans, and wrinkled clothing. The floor was covered with piles of neglected books, tech boxes, tangled electronics, crusty dishes, and stiffened gym clothes. Every flat surface held teetering stacks of college boy cast-offs, all coated in an unhealthy sprinkling of dust and toenail clippings.

  Interestingly, none of this seemed to interfere with Hayden’s routine while home on break. He was perfectly happy to wake up at noon on his litter-strewn mattress, wearing the same pizza sauce stained t-shirt he wore the day before, and stumble like a zombie with crazed hair down to the kitchen for his daily roast beef sandwich, which he liked to consume on the couch while wa
tching old episodes of Judge Judy, wiping his hands on the upholstery.

  After a sufficient number of crumbs had been deposited on the carpet, Hayden headed back to his bedroom, somehow negotiating the familiar piles of debris without so much as a scratch, to spend a few hours on one of several electronic devices before getting serious about his schedule.

  Sometime in the mid-afternoon, he emerged once again from his personal cesspool, ready to face the day, or what was left of it, with vim and vigor. He had not yet shaved, combed his hair, or changed his clothes, but he managed to grab his coat (which doubled as a blanket while his bedding was in that forgotten corner) and his shoes (both of which remained untied).

  He spent the rest of his day walking the dog, going to the gym, and visiting friends. I wondered if Hayden’s buddies were alarmed by his disheveled state, but I soon realized young men his age were too caught up in youthful exuberance to care.

  He returned home in time for dinner, during which he consumed his meal in a manner normally associated with ravenous wolverines. To his credit, Hayden courteously dropped his fork and plate into the dishwasher before retiring to his putrid quarters for the night. We reminded him to take a shower, which he always did, even if it occurred at 1:00 a.m., after phone calls to various friends, watching old movies, and playing a few rounds of Pokémon Super Mystery Dungeon.

  We eventually took him back to college, after which I excavated, fumigated, and disinfected his room so guests could sleep there without breaking an ankle, being strangled by electrical cords, or contracting a fungal infection or Legionnaire’s Disease.

  Why did we enable our son to live in such a primitive and unsanitary way when he was home from college? Shouldn’t we, a military family, have required him to wake with morning reveille and spend his day with productive, ship-shape pursuits?

  Perhaps.

  But knowing Hayden tackled differential equations, algorithms, and software design courses while at school, we figured he deserved every break he could get. Besides, we knew one day soon enough, our kids would all graduate from college and be out on their own. When that finally happened, our rooms would be perpetually clean and ready for guests—with gleaming surfaces, fresh linens, hospital corners, and the toilet paper folded into a triangle.

  And then, we’d long for the days when our home was dirtier, because that was when it was our kids’ home too.

  SEASON 5 EPISODE 11

  BOWL DAY: A PLAY-BY-PLAY

  Football-shaped bowl of nuts was on the coffee table. Starter log was sputtering in the fireplace. Dog had been walked. Wings were in the oven.

  Official play begins.

  Francis, ensconced in his tattered college sweatshirt, cargo pants he bought himself off the sale rack at Target, and ratty old sheepskin slippers, surveyed the field, attempting to locate the best seating formation for maximum game-viewing comfort. Uncapped beer in hand, he glanced around to be sure I was not in the room, then hovered over my favorite spot on the couch.

  Francis didn’t utilize his quadriceps to gradually lower his weight into a seat like most human beings; instead, the instant he felt his knees break their upright locked position, he disengaged all muscles, allowing his entire torso to plummet toward his desired location. Interestingly, Francis, all three of his brothers, and their father were infamous chair wreckers, leaving snapped legs, warped springs, and crooked recliners in their wakes.

  As if seized with temporary paralysis of his lower extremities, Francis’s knees buckled, sending his girth rocketing toward our aging couch with violent impact.

  GUH-GLUNK!

  Unnecessary roughness.

  Entering the room, I saw Hayden sitting on the floor munching from a bag of tortilla chips, and Francis in my seat. Hoping a bit of nagging would roust him, I harped, “Hey Hon, if you insist on watching the game from my favorite spot, could you at least sit down gently? Every time you sit there, I hear that spring clunk under you like it’s broken or something.”

  “God help me,” he grumbled under his breath.

  I settled temporarily for the other end of our couch and realized Francis’s offensive move required a smarter defense. “You know, I think you’d better poke that fire Honey, you know how unpredictable those starter logs can be.”

  Francis looked at me suspiciously, but I feigned ignorance, “Have the Seahawks’ colors changed? Didn’t they have royal-blue jerseys a few years ago?”

  As Francis stepped toward the fireplace, I inconspicuously employed a slide-lift-blitz maneuver to regain my territory. But just as I reached the center cushion, our dog, Moby, appeared, licking my face.

  Interference.

  GUH-GLUNK!

  “Alright guys, c’mon, let’s get some real points on the board!” Francis yelled after swiftly retaking my rightful seat. To add insult to injury, he lobbed his ratty sheepskin-slippered foot into my lap and slurped the last of his beer.

  Unsportsmanlike conduct.

  “Hey, Mom?”

  “Yes,” I muttered, after unclenching my teeth.

  “Are those wings done yet?”

  “Not yet,” I looked over just as Hayden tipped the bag of chips above his open mouth, triggering a mini-avalanche of corner crumbs, which cascaded into his mouth, eyes, shirt, and the freshly-vacuumed family room carpet, “But I’m fairly certain you’ll survive.”

  Just then, the cells of my brain called a huddle—a new play was forming.

  Time out.

  While Francis and Hayden laughed like simpletons at silly beer commercials, I disappeared into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a heaping tray of hot wings. Like a dedicated wife and mother, I smilingly doled out platefuls to my unsuspecting husband and son.

  And then I waited, nibbling patiently on a stalk of celery.

  As expected, they dug right in, Hayden meticulously dissecting each tiny radius, ulna, and humerus, then sucking each finger from base to tip. Francis, on the other hand, plopped whole wings into his open mouth, and after manipulation with teeth and tongue, pulled the bones out from his pursed lips, stripped clean of meat, fat, skin and cartilage.

  “Whew!” Francis exclaimed, wiping his brow with a sauce-stained napkin, “Spicy, huh?!”

  Hayden was the first casualty, running for a soda, while Francis tenaciously sweated through another wing or two before abandoning his position in search of cold beer to soothe his burning lips.

  Thanks to a few extra shakes of hot sauce, my play had worked. With the coast finally clear, I mustered what was left of my middle-aged agility.

  Hail Mary.

  Reentering the room, Francis saw me, firmly seated in my favorite spot on our couch. I pumped my upturned hands in the air while wiggling my knees back and forth, in a victory dance.

  Score.

  SEASON 5 EPISODE 12

  FIFTY SHADES OF MATTRESS SHOPPING

  I stepped out of our car and squinted up at the sleek, tall building. It seemed more like a tech company or a global banking institution or the corporate headquarters of something really important.

  Not a furniture store.

  Francis and I hiked across what seemed like acres of parking lot toward the enormous entrance with its gliding automatic doors and gleaming blue Cardi’s Furniture sign. We stopped inside and stared, mouths agape, at the massive lobby before us.

  The ceiling soared five stories overhead. Outdoor furniture was everywhere—wicker, teak, canvas, and cotton stripe. Ahead, crisscrossing escalators chugged hordes of shoppers up and down to floors filled with furniture displays.

  “How can I help you?” a salesman asked, appearing out of nowhere. He was balding, wore an open-collared lilac shirt, a silver pinky ring, and grey slacks. I avoid hard-sales pitches, but Francis can’t resist the opportunity to have someone’s undivided attention. He widened his stance, crossed his arms, and began.

  “Thanks for your help, uh,” he squinted at the name tag on the man’s lilac shirt, “Joe. My name is Francis, and I just retired after tw
enty-eight years in the navy. My wife Lisa and I are …”

  “Well, thank you for your service,” Joe schmoozed, glancing at both of us.

  “I appreciate that, Joe. Truthfully, it was my honor. When I showed up for Aviation Officer Candidate School down in Pensacola back in 1988, I never imagined that I’d end up making military service a career. But I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. Even my last deployment to …”

  “Joe,” I interrupted, “do you have mattresses?”

  Francis took the hint and fast-forwarded his life story to the end. “Our last military move is next month, Joe, and we need a new bed.”

  “Right this way,” Joe said. He led us to the elevator doors and said, “Press three.”

  The third floor displayed mattresses as far as the eye could see. We didn’t know where to begin. For the first half of our marriage, we used low-budget mattresses from the military exchange. Then, in 2011, we found a Sears clearance center in Jacksonville, Florida, where we bought a slightly scuffed, queen-sized pillow-top that was leaning against a wall between a scratch-and-dent refrigerator and a reconditioned lawn mower.

  Classy.

  “How can I help you today?” Another salesman appeared magically. This one was named Pete. He had comb-lines in his hair and wore an open-collared blue shirt, a gold pinky ring, and black slacks. Francis widened his stance and squinted at Pete’s name tag.

  Here we go again.

  After Francis finished his life story, Pete led us through the sea of quilted polyester. Like Vanna White, he motioned for us to lie down on the first luxurious king-sized bed.

  “Which side do you prefer?” he asked me. It seemed odd, exposing my bedtime preferences to a complete stranger, but I took the left side, and Francis flopped onto the right, groaning loudly with pleasure.