KIDS LIKE THE BATTLE OF THE BUGS

The day five earwigs climbed out of the steam vents of my iron I decided there was nothing to do but declare all-out war!

All summer we had battled those slinky, brown six-leggers with their vice-like pincers perpetually poised for pinching.

When three-year-old Matthew woke up screaming during the night, he inevitably claimed to have seen an earwig "big as a bigar" (cigar) under the covers.  And Christie, our toddler went into hysterics every time a "pinch-bug" crossed her path.

"Kids," I said, offering a generous bounty for their cooperation, "I'll give you five cents for every earwig you bring in."

At first the bounty hunting was sporadic.  Jennifer cornered one earwig in her shoe and three in the bathroom vanity.

Stacee found a dead one on the floor.

And Matt-Matt found one "big as as a bigar" under the covers.  "But it got away again," he said.

Only four-year-old Michael seemed unaffected by this chance to earn a little extra cash.  I saw him playing with his bedspread in the yard.  "He's going to build another tent," I thought.
"Don't get that blanket dirty, Mike," I warned.

Five minutes later, I watched him methodically drag said blanket through weeds and garden dirt.

"That's it, son!" I tried hard to control my voice.  "You bring that blanket in this very second!"

Surprised at how quickly he complied, I had little time to grasp the child's ingenuity as he stood there pointing excitedly to half a dozen earwigs clinging to the quilt.

 "Look, Mom," he said, "by next week I'll have enough money to buy myself a horse!"

I'll give you five cents for every earwig you bring in!

WHAT TO DO WITH ALL THE ZUCCHINI

Well, folks, it’s time for my annual “Whatever Shall We Do With All This Zucchini?” column.  The following is a representative sampling from my mailbag:

Dear Sharon,

My wife is into zucchini facial masks.  Every night I go to bed with a vegetable salad.

                                                   --Sleeping with the Green Goddess

Dear Sleeping,

Count your blessings.  At least she hasn’t heard about the latest thing in garlic masks. 

 

Dear Sharon,

Why would my husband insist on using a 10-pound zucchini for a fly swatter?

--Bugged

Dear Bugged,

What else does one do with a vegetable called “squash?”

Dear Sharon,

Is it true that local restaurants will take your zucchini?
                                                         --Diner                                                                        
Dear Diner,

Yes, to use as doorstops!

Dear Sharon,

I keep dreaming that I’m being chased by a giant zucchini.  Any suggestions?

--Exhausted

Dear Ex,

Run--do not walk, to the nearest Hollywood producer.  Sounds like a great sequel to The Killer Tomatoes!

Dear Sharon,

My son insists on playing Zucchini Frisbee. Our walls are full of holes.

--Boomerang’s Mom

Dear Boom,

One cup mashed zucchini mixed with ½ cup Elmer’s Glue makes a dandy patching plaster.

Dear Sharon,

Every time I give my neighbor two zucchinis, she gives me back four.

--Bread Upon the Waters  

Dear Bread,

Try giving her other “greens,” like, say, dollar bills.

Dear Sharon,

Is it true that consumption of zucchini inhibits the aging process? 

--Ponce de Leon                                                               

Dear Ponce,

It’s worked for me.  I’ve been 29 for decades.

Dear Sharon,

Can too much zucchini be hazardous to your health?

--Veggie                                                                            

Dear Veggie,

Only when fired from projectile weapons.

Dear Sharon,

I’ve got zucchini coming out of my ears.

--Dumbo

Dear Dumb,

Quick, put it back in.  That way you won’t have to keep giving it away.

Best doorstop ever!

BIRDS OF A DIFFERENT FEATHER

“Thanks for breakfast,” Dave said cheerfully as he got ready for work.  I had crept back into the warm security of blankets and bed after propping my uncooperative eyelids open with toothpicks just long enough to prepare the requested Eggs Benedict for my early rising spouse.

Now, with both eyes squinting against the incendiary brilliance of the overhead light, I mumbled something about people who can’t tell day from night.

Choosing to ignore such yawning petulance, my lighthearted husband stood there by the dresser tying a meticulous knot in a yellow-spangled tie and whistling the kind of ditty that sounds downright unnatural at 5 o’clock in the morning.

“Of course,” he ended his tune with an amused reproach, “poached oatmeal with Hollandaise sauce is an unusual topping for English muffins.  Didn't know whether to add ketchup or brown sugar.  But I have to admit that substituting bologna for the ham was an ingenious bit of economy.”

Tie knotted, my better half bent down to kiss me “goodbye”.  Then slinging a jaunty, navy blazer across one shoulder, he left for work.

“Oh, what a beautiful morning!”  I could hear him singing as he went.

“Why is it that owls always marry larks?”  I muttered. 

By now it would be impossible to recapture the plump appeal of my pillow.  So, wandering aimlessly into the bathroom, I examined my haggard face in the medicine cabinet mirror. Still groggy, I turned on the cold water tap and stuck my head beneath the icy flow. 

After a few moments, I reached for a nearby tube of liquid Prell shampoo and methodically washed my hair with Crest Mint Gel.

Dave, back in the day when he was a lark and I was an owl.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Now we are both owls and larks.  Just can't stay awake in between!