Forever, Erma: Best-Loved Writing From America's Favorite Humorist - Softcover

Bombeck, Erma

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0836236734 ISBN 13: 9780836236736

Publisher: Andrews McMeel Publishing, 1997

Synopsis

"A lot of columnists write words to end up in the Congressional Record or on the president's desk or at the Pulitzer Committee's door. But Erma Bombeck went us all one better. Her words won her the permanent place of honor in American life: the refrigerator door. Now we are again at wit's end."--Ellen Goodman

"Erma Bombeck may be gone, but she'll live forever in her columns. A fitting finale for the much-loved humorist." --Booklist

"Forever, Erma is a modest measure of our loss." --The New York Times Book Review

Erma Bombeck's own aversion to producing books of column collections over the years made the family and publisher of the hardcover Forever, Erma apprehensive about its public acceptance.

The pubic proved Erma's misgivings were unfounded. Within nine weeks of the publication date, the book had climbed to number three on The New York Times best-seller list. It remained on the list for a total of fifteen weeks. Over 400,000 copies had been bought by her loyalists and their friends and families.

The success of the hardcover edition expands Erma's literary legacy. Now the paperback edition of Forever, Erma will reach new generations. We all see ourselves in her words.

Only the emotional spectrum of this book matches its topical diversity. One's feelings are reminiscent of the same warmth and tenderness only Erma could portray, and readers will be delighted to find their favorite selections. Included with 188 other columns are her first, "Children Cornering the Coin Market," from January 1965, and her last one, "Let's Face It," from April 1996.

As in the hardcover edition, a tribute chapter includes remembrances from some of Erma's family, friends, and colleagues, including Phil Donahue, Art Buchwald, and Ellen Goodman.

Readers around the world loved Erma Bombeck and cherished every one of her columns. Forever, Erma, will give them a classic way to hold on to this most gifted writer. As Phil Donahue said, "We shall never see the likes of her again. She was real and she brought us down to earth--gently, generously, and with brilliant humor. When the scholars gather hundreds of years from now to learn about us, they can't know it all if they don't read Erma."

About this title

About the Author

 Beloved for her wry yet warm look at family life, Erma Bombeck was America's favorite humorist at the time of her death in 1996. Ten of her 13 books, including Forever, Erma, appeared on the New York Times best-seller list. She claimed her first fiction writing was the weather forecast in the Dayton Herald. Her favorite food was pasta, and her hobby was dust.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Forever, Erma

Best-Loved Writing from America's Favorite HumoristBy Erma Bombeck

Andrews McMeel Publishing

Copyright © 1997 Erma Bombeck
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780836236736

CHAPTER ONE

Hello, Young Mothers

Paint Tint Caper--September 4, 1965

    Once . . . just once . . . I'd like to be dressed for an emergency.

    I don't mean like my grandmother used to warn: "That is notunderwear to be hit by a car in." I mean just to be glued together, soyou're not standing in a hospital hallway in a sweatshirt (PROPERTYOF NOTRE DAME ATHLETIC DEPT.) and a pair of bedroom slippers.

    In a way, it's almost as if fate were waging a cruel war andyou're in the middle of it. Not only are you (a) bleeding to death, (b)grimacing in pain, and (c) worried half out of your skull, you arealso plagued with the fear that the nurses in East Wing C arepassing the hat to adopt you and your family for Thanksgiving.

    Take our Paint Tint Caper, for example. Our small son climbedinto bed with us early one morning and smiled broadly. I'm intuitive.I'm a mother. I sensed something was wrong. His teeth were blue.He had bitten into a tube of paint tint. Now if you're visualizingsome sweet, tousled-hair boy in his fire-engine pajamas, forget it.This kid looked like he was being raised by werewolves!

    In addition to his blue teeth, he was wearing a pair of trainingpants and his father's old T-shirt, which caught him loosely aroundthe ankles. This was obviously no time to be proud or to explain thatI was a few years behind in the laundry. We rode like the wind tothe emergency ward of the hospital, where the doctor checked overhis blue teeth so calmly I thought there was something wrong withmine because they were white.

    "What kind of paint tint?" he asked clinically.

    "Sky blue," we said shakily, pointing to the color on his T-shirt.

    "I can see that," he said irritably. "I mean, what did it containchemically?"

    My husband and I stared at each other. Normally, youunderstand, we don't let a can of paint into the house until we'vecommitted the chemical contents and their percentages to memory.This one had escaped us somehow.

    While they were pumping his stomach, we took a good look atourselves. My husband was in a pair of thrown-over-the-chairdenims and his pajama top. I was wearing yesterday's house dresswith no belt, no hose, and a scarf around my uncombed hair. I wasclutching a dish towel, my only accessory. We looked like a familyof Okies who had just stepped into the corridor long enough to get atin can of water for our boiling radiator.

    There are other stories, other dilemmas, but the characters neverchange. We're always standing around, unwashed, uncurled,harried, penniless, memory gone, no lipstick, no hose, unmatchedshoes, and using the dirtiest cloth in the house to bind our wounds.

    Makes you want to plan your next accident, doesn't it?

Birds, Bees and Guppies-January 6, 1966

    The sex education of a child is pretty important. None of uswants to blow it.

    I have a horror of ending up like the woman in the old joke whowas asked by her child where he came from and, after sheexplained all the technical processes in a well-chosen vocabulary,he looked at her intently and said, "I just wondered. Mike camefrom Hartford, Connecticut."

    I figured I had the problem whipped the day my son took aninterest in fish. What better way to explain the beautifulreproduction cycle of life than through the animal kingdom? Webought two pairs of guppies and a small aquarium. That was ourfirst mistake. We should either have bought four males and a smallaquarium, four females and a small aquarium or two pairs and areservoir. I had heard of population explosions before, but this wasridiculous! The breakfast conversation ran something like this:

    "What's new at Peyton Place by the Sea?" inquired my husband.

    "Mrs. Guppy is e-n-c-e-i-n-t-e again," I'd spell.

    "Put a little salt in the water. That'll cure anything," he mumbled.

    "Daddy," said my son, "that means she's pregnant."

    "Again!" choked Daddy. "Can't we organize an intramuralvolleyball game in there or something?"

    The first aquarium begat a second aquarium with no relief insight. "Are you getting anything out of your experiences withguppies?" I asked delicately one afternoon.

    "Oh, yeah, they're neat," my son exclaimed enthusiastically.

    "I mean, now that you've watched the male and the female, doyou understand the processes that go into the offspring? Have younoticed the role of the mother in all this?"

    "Yeah," he said, bright-eyed. "You oughta see her eat herbabies."

    We added a third aquarium, which was promptly filled withsaltwater and three pairs of seahorses.

    "Now, I want you to pay special attention to the female," Iinstructed. "The chances are it won't take her long to be with child,and perhaps you can even see the birth."

    "The female doesn't give birth, Mom," he explained. "The maleseahorse gives birth."

    I felt myself smiling, perhaps anticipating a trend. "Ridiculous," Isaid, "females always give birth."

    The male began to take on weight. I thought I saw his anklesswell. He became a mother on the twenty-third of the month.

    "That's pretty interesting," said my son. "I hope I'm not a motherwhen I grow up, but if I am, I hope my kids are born on land."

    I had blown it. I knew I would.

Good Neighbor Policy--May 16, 1966

    Occasionally, I will overhear a woman boast, "Well, I don'tneighbor. I'm much too busy to be running in and out, drinkingcoffee and making small talk with a bunch of women!"

    Well, who wouldn't prefer making small talk with a bunch ofmen! But if I have to compromise, I'll take neighbors. If it hadn'tbeen for neighbors, I'd have flunked my ink blot tests years ago!

    When the children were quite small we moved into a new housethat was rather isolated. (Rather isolated! These people had neverseen a wheel until we unpacked the kids' tricycles.) After threedays of explaining to a five-year-old why birds don't getelectrocuted when they sit on telephone wires, watching athree-year-old eat egg yolks with his fingers and listening to athree-month-old cry around the clock, I was ready to chuck thewhole mess and trade them all for a ride in a shiny new car with avanilla salesman.

    Enter my first neighbor--a woman who spoke in complete,coherent sentences, who ate with a knife and fork and who onlycried at weddings. I couldn't help myself. In a dramatic gesture, Ibolted the door and threw my body across it to prevent her exit. Sheunderstood.

    Since then, I've had some winners and some losers. (I had onewho would have borrowed my eyeballs if they had fit into a cup andsurvived the trip across the lawn.) If I were to make a composite ofthe perfect neighbor, I'd have to list a good neighbor as one who:

    1. Doesn't call you up and ask you why your son wants toborrow 30 pounds of cement. Just says "No!" and calls thepolice.

    2. Doesn't whip in and out of your utility room like Doris Dayjust to tell you your bleach is weak and your laundrysecond-rate.

    3. Doesn't snicker when you unpack eight bags of groceries,then borrow coffee, butter and potatoes for your dinner.

    4. Doesn't sulk in your privet hedge when you borrow ice,card tables and silverware for a party to which she hasn'tbeen invited.

    5. Doesn't feel she has the right to comment on your relativesjust because she hears about them from you four hours outof every day.

    6. Doesn't deny she knows you well enough to write abestselling novel about you but not well enough to walk intoyour house without knocking.

    Yes, sir, you show me a woman who doesn't neighbor--and I'llshow you a woman who gets talked about by the ones who do!

Waking Up Momma--July 4, 1966

    How I am awakened in the morning usually determines how Ifeel the rest of the day.

    When allowed to wake up in the natural way, I find myself quitecivil and reasonable to cope with the routine. When the children dothe job for me, I awake surly, uncommunicative and tire easily. (Ionce fell asleep while I was having my tooth filled.)

    It all begins at some small hour in the morning. The children lineup at my bedside and stare at me as if I'm a white whale that hasbeen washed onto the beach.

    "I think she hears us. Her eyelids fluttered."

    "Wait till she turns over, then everybody cough."

    "Get him out of here."

    "She's pulling the covers over her ears. Start coughing."

    I don't know how long it will be before one of them discoversthat by taking my pulse they will be able to figure out by its rapidbeat if I am faking or not. But it will come.

    When they were smaller, they were even less subtle. They wouldstick their wet fingers in the openings of my face and whisper, "Youawake yet?" Or good old Daddy would simply heave aflannel-wrapped bundle at me and say, "Here's Mommy's little boy."(Any mother with half a skull knows that when Daddy's little boybecomes Mommy's little boy, Daddy's little boy is so wet he'streading water!)

    The imagination of children never fails to stagger me. Once theyput a hamster on my chest, and when I bolted upright (my throatmuscles paralyzed with fright) they asked, "Do you have anyalcohol for the chemistry set?"

    Probably the most unnerving eye-opener was a couple of weeksago, when my eyes popped open without the slightest provocation."Those rotten kids have done it again," I grumbled. "How can Isleep with that infernal quiet? The last time it was this quiet theywere eating cereal on the front lawn in raggy pajamas." I hurried tofind them.

    I found them in the kitchen intent on their cereal. No noise. Nononsense. "Go back to bed," they yelled. "We won't want any lunchuntil nine-thirty or so."

    It was going to be another one of those days.

When Last Child Goes to School--September 5, 1966

    One of,the foremost exponents of modern-day terrorism is thewoman who asks, "What are you going to do with yourself when allyour children are in school?"

    They go on to paint a dismal picture of the lonely mother whoplucks a pair of sticky socks off the ceiling and sobs uncontrollablyinto them, "My baby! My baby!" A woman who wanders throughthe house, unfulfilled and fighting bravely against the realization thatshe's being replaced by a 35-cent plate lunch and a woman she'dlike to sue for alienation of affection. A disillusioned woman withoutpurpose who must fill her time somehow until the big yellow busdeposits her brood at the curb so she can once again run and fetch!

    For many a woman, this will be a rather accurate prediction.She's the woman who didn't have many interests going for her inthe first place. When the children came along, it was the answer toher problem. Here was her crutch, her ace in the hole, her reasonfor not having to go outside the home, invent diversions, meet newfriends, put up her hair, read a book or function as a woman. Shewore her children like a hair shirt and told everyone how theydepended upon her--when it was the other way around.

    To most women, however, the school bell will sound as gloriousas VE Day. It's over. She's done it. She is back to some semblanceof a schedule, some precious time to herself. She wanted childrentoo, but for another reason. They fulfilled a strong desire to love,raise and leave as a legacy another human being. But they didn'tfulfill her ambitions, her struggle for individuality or her need tomake a contribution to this life, no matter how small.

    I have seen women emerge like great beautiful butterflies from acocoon existence that was limited to naps and peanut butter. I haveseen them assume leadership, develop and grow into active citizens,unearth artful talents that surprised everyone--even themselves,revert to skills they had BB (Before Babies), and set about restoringtheir own personal appearance.

    I have also seen them sink into despondency, scrub the kitchentwice a week to pass the time and mechanically mouth the same oldroutine, "I can't . . . (name anything). I've got the children."

    From a woman who has lived through the "last one into school"bit, may I give you a piece of advice. Allow yourself the luxury ofthat one last look as he waves goodbye from the bus. Pour yourselfa cup of coffee and have a good cry for at least five minutes. Then,if you haven't suffered enough, walk slowly through the house andlet the quiet pound at your eardrums. If you like, enjoy a round ofguilt complex. ("Why was I so rotten to him all summer?")

    Now, straighten your shoulders, take a deep breath and look outof your window. There's a big world out there. You earned it! Now,enjoy it!

Surviving Motherhood--September 1966

    I have discovered that one of the rich rewards of motherhood iscasting maledictions on your children in the event they becomeparents. It's a unique way of saying, "Just wait, kid . . . you'regonna get yours."

    One of my earliest recollections of this tribal custom dates backto my childhood when one day I was nailed in the act of throwingmud balls at Mother's corset flapping on the clothesline.

    Enraged, my mother shook her fists at me and yelled, "May allyour children have ingrown toenails!" Observing that didn't shakeme, she added a bonus. "And may your tears be so salty you spitbrine for a week!"

    I'm not saying I fully comprehended all this, but from her tone Isensed she wasn't wishing me a happy birthday. I noticed Grandmatalked this way too. Sometimes when Mother had had a bad dayGrandma would smile, rather pleased with herself, and say, "I toldyou, Missy, if you made your bed of thorns, you'd have to walkthrough it in your bare feet."

    Or when she really wanted to sink Mother, she'd say, "Didn't Ipredict that lip of yours would grow so long you'd have to take atuck in it?"

    Throughout childhood, the words of wisdom continued to flowuntil I felt like I was living with a couple of hollow-eyed gypsies.Words of encouragement, like "May you have a wart on your noseon your wedding day and heartburn on your honeymoon." Or,"Take care, missy, little girls who sass their mothers live to see theirbest friends chalk dirty words on their tombstones."

    None of this made much sense until I had children of my own.Now, casting curses on my children is a way of life. It's the mostcomforting way I know to get rid of all my anxieties, hostilities andfrustrations.

    And the beauty is that the kids don't comprehend a word I'msaying.

    I have one that's a real teaser. I just drop my shoulders, let myarms fall limp to my sides and nod my head tiredly. I don't sayanything at first until I am sure I have their attention. Then I say,"Wait . . . just wait . . . until you're a mother." (Occasionally, myson, who is very bright for 11, will remind me he's a boy and onlythe female species bear their young, but he gets the message. Iknow he does.)

    Casting curses isn't the easiest thing in the world. To work up toa pitch you need incentive, like the other day when I found a pile ofdirty socks stuffed in the Erector set box.

    I yelled at the top of my voice, "I hope you have identical twins .. . two weeks apart! May your patio face southwest. May yourfather belch loudly at the father-son banquet. May you have arainbow over your playpen!"

    When they get home from school, I'll think of some more.

Costume for the School Play--May 29, 1968

    There is nothing that does more for my mornings than to have achild announce hysterically, "Mom! I'm in a play today. I need acostume!"

    Some mothers are lucky. They have children who get all thegood parts. Their little girls are fairy princesses with magic wandsand Sunday dresses. Or their little boys are assigned roles as toysoldiers who can be outfitted from the toy box.

    Not my kids. They are always cast as a bad tooth, the SixteenthAmendment or Mr. Courtesy.

    With the bad tooth, we faked it. I wrapped the kid in a whitesheet and stuck a raisin in his navel to depict a cavity.

    The Sixteenth Amendment was a bit more complicated. It deals,of course, with the power of Congress to lay and collect taxes onincomes. We outfitted her in a baggy suit with the pockets inside outand a blank check across her mouth stamped INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.

    Mr. Courtesy was a real challenge. We finally put him in aSuperman suit, changed the big red S to a big red C and told him tosmile until his face broke.

    Last week, one of the kids did it again. "Hey, Mom. I forgot totell you, but I'm in a play today."

    "Don't sweat it," I said calmly. "I'll get a costume. What are you?"

    "I'm a participle," he said.

    I steadied myself against the stove. "Split or dangling?"

    "You're confused," he said. "I only dangle. Dan Freeby is theone who splits. He's an infinitive."

    "Wonderful," I said. "Now, what did you have in mind?"

    "I don't care. The teachers just want me to modify Mike Ferrett."

    "What's he wearing?"

    "I don't know. Whatever nouns wear."

    "You're right," I said. "You see one noun, you've seen them all.Look, why don't you just wear a clean shirt and your slipover withyour Sunday pants?"

    "That's dumb," he said. "Who'd know I was a participle?"

    "Who'd know you weren't?" I snapped.

    "If this will help you," he said, "I look exactly like a gerund."

    I promised myself a good stiff belt of vanilla if I lived through thismorning.

Outgrowing Naps--August 14, 1968

    A group of young mothers huddled around the kiddie pool theother day discussing children's naps.

    "I think Lisa has outgrown naps," said one pretty blonde. "She'stwenty-two months now and told me she didn't want to rest in theafternoons anymore."

    I nearly fell out of my water wings. What is the world coming towhen a child under two sets her own schedule?

    In my book the question was never to nap or not to nap butrather how old should a mother be before her naps arediscontinued? It seems like only yesterday my son confronted mewith the decision.

    "Do I have to nap again today?"

    "Yes."

    "Why?"

    "Because I fell asleep while having my teeth filled this morning."

    "Were you tired?"

    "I wasn't bored."

    "Can I mess around while you nap?"

    "No!"

    "Why?"

    "Because you get into things."

    "Name me one."

    "Putting bubble gum on the nozzle of the garden hose, turning onthe water and having it break and flood the living room."

    "Name me two."

    "Go to sleep."

    "Can I have a drink?"

    "No."

    "Look at my foot! My toenail is turning black."

    "Try washing it."

    "What happens if I don't take a nap now?"

    "You go to bed at five-thirty."

    "Why do I have to sleep when you're tired?"

    "For the same reason I put a sweater on you when I am cold."

    "I'm the only fifth-grader I know who comes to ball practice withchenille creases on his face."

    "That's the thanks a mother gets for sacrificing herself two hoursevery afternoon to see that her child gets the proper rest."

    He sighed and said, "If you snore, should I roll you over on yourside?"

    Smart-mouth kid.

A Mother's Eye--August 18, 1968

    Of all the means of communication known to man, none is quiteas effective as the Mother's Eye. Or, as we say, one glance isworth a thousand punches in the mouth. There are a variety, dependingupon the situation, but these are a few of the old standards.

    THE LOOK OF DEATH: This is used on a child with a busy finger uphis nose. (It is similar to the Frozen Stare usually employed to catcha waiter's eye, but is somewhat different.) It's a steady gaze,unflinching and unyielding. The brow is furrowed, the lips are firmwith no trace of a smile. The face remains in a hypnotic state untilthe finger is removed from the nose.

    THE DEADPAN GLARE: This is the one most often used at thedinner table for children who fill their glasses to overflowing, eatgravy with their fingers and bulge their cheeks with food. On someoccasions, the Deadpan Glare is accompanied by a good swift kickin the thigh under the table.

    THE MARTYR'S COUNTENANCE: This is unmistakably the look ofpain and is conjured up when a child parades down the church aislecarrying his training pants or demands the $2 you borrowed fromhim in the middle of a cocktail party. Some people confuse theMartyr's Countenance with the Deadpan Glare. When in doubt,remember that the Martyr's Countenance is accompanied by tears,biting of the lower lip until it bleeds and fainting.

    THE DESPERATE SQUINT is a real study in pantomime. The jaw isset firm, the lips curl and the eyes are narrow and menacing. Theydart back and forth. It is used when a child is loose at the mouthand asks in a loud voice if it is true Aunt Helen wouldn't know whatto do with a man if she found one. If Aunt Helen happens to be inthe room at the time these words are uttered, a mother often goesinto her Divine Guidance Stare.

    THE DIVINE GUIDANCE STARE is a desperate look where her headis tilted upward, her eyes roll back until the whites show and the lipsutter what seems to be a Buddhist prayer.

    Perhaps the most feared of all looks is a mother's No Look look.This appears to be a blank expression to a child who is jumping onthe sofa with his muddy feet or running around at an adult party at2 A.M., but beware. The most literal translation of the No Look lookcomes from a youngster who interpreted it as "When the companygoes, head for the bed and look small and helpless until it blowsover."

Confirmed Shouter--March 5, 1969

    Ever since President Nixon's inaugural plea to "speak quietlyenough so that our words can be heard as well as our voices," I'vehad misgivings about my big mouth.

    I've always admired parents who discipline their children inhushed whispers: "Arthur, you are a naughty boy for turning on allthe gas jets. Now I want you to drag your little sister out into thefresh air, give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and apologize.Don't make Mama have to raise her voice."

    I'm a shouter. Once on a vacation when one of the kids turnedon the car heater while going through Georgia, my mother told methey felt the vibrations as far north as Port Huron, Michigan.

    No one is born a shrew. I used to watch women getting flushedand angry while they chewed out their children and I'd say tomyself, "My goodness, that woman is going to have a heart attack.No one should discipline a child in anger." (I was five at the timeand being flogged with a yardstick by my mother.)

    Having children of my own knocked a hole in that theory. Tobegin with, there were only 32 hours out of every week when Iwasn't angry, and then I was sleeping.

    Also, I discovered children never took a "no" seriously unless thedishes rattled when you said it.

    And the real clincher came when I discovered I had runners."Runners" are kids who, when they commit some sin, take off forthe fields, trees, basements, neighbors, attics or sewers.

    Did you ever try to whisper to someone you couldn't see? I tookto shouting.

    We once had a neighbor who was born out of her time. Shebelonged in a hoopskirt eating a basket lunch at Tara.

    I lived next to her for four years, and not once did that disgustingold dame raise her voice. Of course you can imagine what thatmade me sound like. (The Shore Patrol breaking up a floating crapgame.)

    Anyway, one day the boys were throwing a ball against herhouse and she appeared like an apparition at the door,gestured to them and said softly, "Boys, would you-all comehere for a moment?"

    I watched her gesturing, talking and smiling. When shefinished the boys disbanded.

    I pounced on my son. "What did that mealy-mouthed littlefrail have to say to you boys?"

    "She said if we broke her windows, she'd break our faces!"

    From that day forward I forgave her for her quietness.What she lacked in volume she made up for in content.What class!

    I should love to follow President Nixon's advice, but whenyou've got varicose neck veins from years of shouting, it isn'tgoing to be easy. Will you put down that coffee cup and payattention? I said it isn't going to be easy!

Youngest Child Tries to Tell a Joke--May 23, 1969

    Our youngest child has been trying to tell a joke at thedinner table for the last three years. The same one.

    I feel sorry for the kid. To be on the tail end of a familymeans anything you come up with has either been told orisn't worth telling. We can always tell when his favoritemagazine comes in the mail. He will rush into the kitchenand say, "Why did it take three Boy Scouts to help a little oldlady across the street?" and one of the older ones will shout,"Because she didn't want to go, you cluck!"

    Personally I wish he'd take the magazine, crumple it andstuff it in every opening in his face, but he never does. Healways looks amazed that someone knew the answer andsays, "That's right."

    Next month, it's the same old deal. "How do you stop anelephant from charging?" His sister, looking bored, will snap,"Let me guess. You take away his credit cards."

    "That's right," he says, perplexed.

    About three years ago he said, "Have you heard the storyabout a man who bought a mousetrap and went to therefrigerator for cheese and--"

    "Which reminds me," interrupted his father. "Who ate the beercheese?"

    "I didn't eat it," one of the kids said. "I used it for bass bait."

    In the months to follow, we were to hear the preamble to thejoke dozens of times ... always with interruptions, nevercompleted.

    Finally, one day last week I said, "Tell me your joke about theman with the mousetrap and the cheese for bait."

    "Well," he said, perching himself on the stool, "he found out hedidn't have any cheese for bait, so he cut a picture from a magazineof a piece of cheese. When he woke up the next morning, knowwhat he found in his trap? A picture of a mouse."

    "Tell it at dinner," I urged.

    Under protest, the family sat rigid and listened to the storywithout interruption. By the time he got to his punch line he washysterical. His eyes were shining with excitement, and I thought hewas going to explode as he built for his big finish. "And do youknow what he found in his trap?" he asked. "A mouse!"

    No one said a word. I wonder whether Henny Youngman gotstarted this way.

No More Oatmeal Kisses--January 29, 1969

A young mother writes: "I know you've written before about theempty-nest syndrome, that lonely period after the children aregrown and gone. Right now I'm up to my eyeballs in laundry andmuddy boots. The baby is teething; the boys are fighting. Myhusband just called and said to eat without him, and I fell off mydiet. Lay it on me again, will you?"

    OK. One of these days, you'll shout, "Why don't you kids growup and act your age!" And they will. Or, "You guys get outside andfind yourselves something to do . . . and don't slam the door!" Andthey won't.

    You'll straighten up the boys' bedroom neat and tidy: bumperstickers discarded, bedspread tucked and smooth, toys displayed onthe shelves. Hangers in the closet. Animals caged. And you'll sayout loud, "Now I want it to stay this way." And it will.

    You'll prepare a perfect dinner with a salad that hasn't beenpicked to death and a cake with no finger traces in the icing, andyou'll say, "Now, there's a meal for company." And you'll eat italone.

    You'll say, "I want complete privacy on the phone. No dancingaround. No demolition crews. Silence! Do you hear?" And you'llhave it.

    No more plastic tablecloths stained with spaghetti. No morebedspreads to protect the sofa from damp bottoms. No more gatesto stumble over at the top of the basement steps. No moreclothespins under the sofa. No more playpens to arrange a roomaround.

    No more anxious nights under a vaporizer tent. No more sandon the sheets or Popeye movies in the bathroom. No more iron-onpatches, rubber bands for ponytails, tight boots or wet knottedshoestrings.

    Imagine. A lipstick with a point on it. No baby-sitter for NewYear's Eve. Washing only once a week. Seeing a steak that isn'tground. Having your teeth cleaned without a baby on your lap.

    No PTA meetings. No car pools. No blaring radios. No onewashing her hair at 11 o'clock at night. Having your own roll ofScotch tape.

    Think about it. No more Christmas presents out of toothpicksand library paste. No more sloppy oatmeal kisses. No more toothfairy. No giggles in the dark. No knees to heal, no responsibility.

    Only a voice crying, "Why don't you grow up?" and the silenceechoing, "I did."

Continues...

Excerpted from Forever, Ermaby Erma Bombeck Copyright © 1997 by Erma Bombeck. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Andrews McMeel Publishing
• Publication date: 1997
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0836236734
• ISBN 13: 9780836236736
• Binding: Paperback
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 273