I didn't know about reversible underwear

The clues were right under my fingertips, drifting up toward my nose, which, by the way,  should be loaned  out to the FBI or TSA because one snort of this formidable honker draws in a tornado strength of smells, each  instantly recognizable. I'm like an olfactory terminator and I've been told I've got the nose of a bloodhound. Or a truffle smelling pig. Or my grandmother Hayes.

So when the kids came home from their monthly visit at their grandparents spread in New York a few weeks ago, and Teen Boy's suitcase looked remarkably untouched, as if he never unzipped it, I should have known. The undies still in perfect little stacks, the gleaming white socks gripping each others soles.

But sometimes parents can't face the truth, can't stomach the news, can't handle the discovery that their offspring have chosen a different path or perhaps, in the case of  Teen Boy, unclothed a way to save the earth, one knicker at a time.

He recycles his underwear.

This was his dirty little secret.

And to a mother who never wears her jammies twice, brushes her old fangs several times a day, and uses  a paper towel to open the door of a public restroom,  I was in a tailspin.

Okay, I know he's old enough  to be packing on his own, but I enjoy lining up his shirts and knowing that he's got a solid supply of clean sweet smelling t-shirts, boxer briefs and crew socks.neatly folded in  the bowels of his bag. What happens if he slips into the ponds? Or drops a pizza on his lap? Or dribbles milk down his chest? Or the dogs slobber on his jeans? So on the morning of his departure to the great Empire State, I packed his bags. I shoved in a few funky argyle sweaters for a big dinner party that his grandparents were throwing one evening in their honor.

There's no riff raff in that house.

I had to sit on the bulging duffel to close the zipper.

Teen boy picked up his bag and dropped it back on the couch.

"You pack way too much. I'm going for four days. I don't need this stuff."

He peeled back the zipper and started pulling out the underwear.

"I only need one," Teen Boy grunted.

"What? You're going for four days. You need four and a couple of spares," I said.


"Nope. Just need one."

"Don't you change your underwear every day?" I asked.

"I'll  turn them inside out."

"What!?"

No answer.

"What happens if you get skid marks?"

No answer.


"That's disgusting," I said.

Teen Boy tossed out a few pairs of brilliant white socks on the couch.

"Do you wear the same socks, too?" I asked.

"Yep."

Teen Boy doesn't really need luggage. He carries all he needs on his back, like a donkey.

"How can you put dirty clothes on a clean body?"

Teen Boy tossed out three  t-shirts.

"Oh, dear God. You turn your t-shirts inside out, too?"

"Yep." 


Teen Boy completed the luggage purge by tossing out the argyles.

If it hadn't been so early in the day, I might have turned to the liquor cabinet for solace. But instead, I popped down another stale Christmas cookie and wondered where I'd  gone wrong. Hmmm..Isn't cleanliness next to Godliness? But Teen Boy is an atheist so pulling that one over his head wasn't going to work. And I wasn't one of those ultra fussy Mominators  who threw a wobbly when their kid came in with a rice sized stain on his shirt.

Hell, Teen Boy spent most of his early days living like a cave boy- running around the garden in the buff, digging in sand and soil pits, rolling in the mud, covered with leaves and twigs, his face glowing with rivers of freeze pops running down his cheeks, chest and nether regions. Toddler Boy looked like a street urchin for most of his formative years and   I never raised an eyebrow. At the end of the day, I'd simply drop him in the tub, give him a good old scrub and tuck him into a clean pair of jammies.


"You do wear clean underwear when you're here, right? I asked.

"Yep."

I'm not sure if I buy that one. But I know that Teen Boy is not alone. My nephew travels light, too. Just the clothes on his back and the wallet in his pocket.

But sometimes the offspring must learn lessons from their elders. And sometimes justice is only a generation away. I've just heard from Teen Girl that Teen Boy went shopping with their Grandfather last night. Seems like he'll be hyper stylin in a new pair of preppy trousers, loafers and button down shirt at tonight's dinner party.

Hmmm....bet Teen Boy wishes that he hadn't tossed  out that bright white t-shirt and argyle sweater.

I'm just curried out.....

Teen boy cooked a fabulous Indian meal a week ago on Friday. A spicy sweet Dal with rice and vegetable pakoras. The house was filled with the sweet aromas of a far away land.

Teen boy cooked another Indian spread again on the following night. The house exploded with flavor and smells, the only thing missing was a Bollywood flick on the telly and the lyrical lilt of an Indian accent.

And though I shouldn't complain, because I'm so damn lucky to have a teen who can roll out homemade vegan dumplings and bake a loaf of  bread that will soon rival the best French bakery, the house smelled like an Indian take out for days. We're not talking two or three days, but that damn smell held us hostage for  over a week.It wasn't a light ethnic fragrance, like the magical summer smells of  basil, rosemary or lemongrass: :it was a full bodied blast that stuck around longer than Fran's hysterical cackle, and Fran herself. 

And I'm now wondering how long is the half life of Curry?

I adore the heady bouquet of Indian spices, the exotic notes of tumeric, fenugreek, cardamon and garam masala but when you whip up two Indian meals on  two consecutive days, you fundamentally alter the molecular structure of those delightful herbs, transforming them into an indestructible curry fog that infuses everything in its path.

It was like an Indian horror flick.

Tumeric, fenugreek and garam masala slowly crept into  my area rug fibers, permeated my walls (which is a feat since I've got so much paint on the sheet rock that Sissy wears that one day they will just buckle) and even muscled their way into my kitchen linens.  And though  I flooded the counters with bleach, mopped the floors with Murphy's Oil Soap, emptied a full bottle of Glade Fresh Air Spray (Fresh Linen)  on every object within a five foot radius, including ones that breathe, the smells  lingered for days.

Opening the doors or throwing up the windows didn't help. It just tripped the thermostat. 

Nothing worked.  The smell moved  upstairs, winding itself into my closet, infusing my cashmere cardies with the perfume of curry.  My pillow smelled like curry. My cats carried the smell of curry on their fur. Every key stroke on my computer seemingly unleashed a cloud of curry.

There was no escape.

It was bad. Very bad. 

Teen boy has been on an Indian food bender ever since buying a bag of fenugreek off an herb dude in New York City. Most kids buy clothes or video games- my kid buys spices and teas. When most teens are shoving down triple pound burgers, he's enjoying tofu in a spicy orange sauce.

He's becoming a really great cook and I don't want to trample on his creativity but I laid down the law one morning as I was sipping my tea and inhaling the sweet smell of six  day old curry. There's nothing more soothing than waking up to curry.

"Let's not cook Indian food two days in a row," I suggested.

"I was thinking of seeing how long I could eat just Indian food," teen boys said..

"Hmmm....well....then I'll buy you a portable camping stove and you can cook outside,"  I said. 

I can't think of another cooking smell that even comes close to rivaling a curry bender, except for fried fish or french fries. When my nephew got a Fry Daddy for Christmas one year (sissy did not buy him this gift), he went  on a year long frying frenzy, plunging every imaginable food into that bubbling vat of fat. He'd drop a load of spuds into that Fry Daddy before the roosters started crowing. I don't think he ever changed the oil or even unplugged it. It was a workhorse and Sissy silently prayed for its demise, pleading that the  Frying Gods  would send down a bolt of electricity and short out the motor.

But his frying fiesta ended as quickly as it began and the Fry Daddy is now at the bottom of a giant heap of garbage somewhere in the Midwest, its motor crushed, its frying days over.

When I reminded Teen boy of his nephew's dance with the fryer, he smiled.

And then asked for a Fry Daddy for Christmas.

I'm Not Adding Demo Lady to My CV...

If you happen to come across my BCHS 1980 yearbook, and take a peek at my senior profile (ignore the apricot mandarin collar, puffy hair and that crazy forced smile plastered on my tilted head)  you'll find that I was the classic underachiever. My dream job? An unbridled desire to work as a clerk at our local dry cleaner. I owe that gem to my still dear friend, Kathy, who altruistically filled out and submitted my senior profile for me since I was too busy doing bong loads to write one up. It could have been worse-she could have written down naughty phone operator, escort, madam, stripper or deli clerk.

I've had a lot of jobs - some great, others so bad that I only lasted days, like my stint at our local dry cleaner. While dropping off my father's shirts one day, I noticed a help wanted sign on the door. Since my parents were getting fed up with me constantly hitting them up for cash and  I got the "Do you know how lucky you are?" talk more times than I can remember, I decided that getting a job would score some big points. Besides, I needed some cash for an upcoming Stray Cats concert and didn't want to ask my parents for more money so soon after the "talk."

I'd join the after school work force. I'd show my parents that I understood how hard work could be. I'd show some initiative. Roll up my fair isle sweater sleeves. Show some drive. Learn some discipline. Show some "can do" spirit.

So when I asked the lady at the counter if I could apply, she raised her eyebrows and said, "Really?"

I should have known.

Somehow, I hadn't realized that I'd actually have to touch those dirty shirts and smelly down comforters. Now those cotton oxfords weren't grimy, but the thought of handling a stranger's garments was unsettling. Hell, I don't even like picking up my own family's soiled laundry and if I could design giant  'laundry tongs' to avoid direct contact with skid marked undies, I would.  And  keeping  all the orders separate and intact when most of the ladies in town dumped their mounds of wrinkled  shirts on the counter and ran out the door to make their tee-time,  was simply overwhelming.

"Hmm...does this Brooks Brothers shirt belong to Mr. Hastings? Or Mr. Barnes? or Mr. Kelley? "How many shirts did Mrs. Carroll drop off?"

I'd end up tossing shirts in what ever bag was closest and hoped that they wouldn't realize that their monogrammed initials weren't their own.

I  lasted two weeks. Though I am sure I would have got sacked, I called the owner and told her it just wasn't going to work.

"It's not a good fit, " I said.

A few months later a group of us got hired at one of my father's client's companies as telemarketers flogging insulation. Well, put a gaggle of kooky estrogen fueled teen girls  in a room with dozens of phones,  stacks of phone directories, a pushover of a boss and you've got the perfect spot to launch endless rounds of prank phone calls. While we should have been calling folks setting up estimates, we'd end up phoning the fraternity houses at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute (RPI)  posing as Farrah, Savannah or Georgette, chatting up the young and untouchable Greek boys using our best Southern, French or Indian accents.. Those were the good old days before the advent of  caller ID where you were free to make untraceable prank calls.

It was a blast.

Until the sales numbers came in and we all got fired.

Then we all moved to  the new Kmart across town and got to wear those fashionable and oh so hip blue smocks that made us look like smurfs.   I got stuck on register while my friends were assigned to cosmetics and shoes and got to hide in the stockroom or aisles, pretending to work. The best part of my shift was turning off my register light as a loaded shopping cart was pulling into my aisle. "Sorry, I'm closed," I'd smile.

So you can imagine Sissy's sheer trepidation and outright terror when she approached me a few weeks back and asked if I would like to help her out.

Sissy works as a District Manager and one of her accounts is the unnamed manufacturer of a certain chic coffee machine. One of her jobs involves setting up demonstrations in upscale malls over the holiday season and she's has had difficulties finding responsible ladies and gents to do the Demos.   Unlike me, sissy is a model employee- she goes far beyond what most employees do to get the job done right. She's an organizing machine, running through paperwork, emails and phone calls with the speed and efficiency of a giant paper shredder. She has 'to do' lists and strikes out each task with vengeance. Her home office is a hive of activity, her walls plastered with post -its and excel spread sheets, phones ringing, computers groaning under the stress of another long work day.

My 'to-do' lists end up flying out my office  window or get lost below  a mountain of notes and files. Notes from interviews are smudged by tea cup rings. I move from window to window, room to room, fridge to freezer, in an aimless drift, eventually finding myself back to my computer.

Sissy was desperate.

And I wanted one of those swanky machines. (a job perk)

"Yes! I can be a Demo Lady. I won't let you down, Sissy," I said.

I'd show Sissy that I could serve coffee with a smile to all those wonderfully polite shoppers who, at the first recognizable sniff of that familiar odor, start a stampede , knocking over senior citizens, the infirm, infants in carriages, all to score a free 8 ounce cup of coffee.  I'd win them over. I'd happily and eagerly explain how the magical machine effortlessly burps  out a cup of java in seconds .I'd serve them with a smile. Draw them in with my winning personality. And be really nice.

Well, umm....being a Demo Lady is hard work. After standing on my tootsies for over  9 hours with my Sissy, I've come to the conclusion that this body wasn't designed to stand in an upright position for an extended period of time, unless, of course, I'm shopping.

My hips, back and knees ached, and I had tankles- my gastrocnemius muscles ran right into my foot, my ankles had simple vanished under the fold of fluid. And oh, dear, the feet. My long toes looked like Jones' breakfast sausages, my shoes straining  under their  growing girth.  My lipstick melted onto my face. And my perpetual under eye bags had become  suitcases.


Half way into my gig as a Demo Lady, I wanted to unplug my machine, rip off my apron, and sprint toward my car, but every time I entertained that thought, Sissy's big brown eyes, heavy with the weight of trying to find responsible Demo Ladies, looked over at me. (Because most of the hiring is done over the phone, you never quite know what you are getting - everyone can talk a good game over the phone- "Oh, yes, I LOVE serving coffee," "I am a people person" "I look professional" "I am responsible." and "You can count on me.")

How could I let my Sissy down? She wasn't just my boss: she was my sister. We shared DNA and our crazy family history. We shared more than our fair share of  deep guttural laughs and heart wrenching tears. No, I couldn't do a 'runner'. I'd have to stand with my fellow Demo Sisters and Brothers (yes, there was a Demo Man) and slug it out.

I'd persevere. I'd welcome the four deep crowd with open arms.  I'd find pleasure in serving 500 cups of Hazelnut and French Vanilla. I'd soften the crabby ones with my charm and wit.And I'd smile when I recognized the ones who came back for seconds and thirds and fourths. After all, it was for Sissy. And I'd just about do anything for her- except fill in as  a Demo Lady next Christmas.