Looking back with Lot's Wife

Frankly my relationship with the warning light on my dashboard is on a “need to know” basis—and I don’t see anything there that I would ever want or need to know. So last week, when my dashboard said “service engine soon,” I assumed, as any normal person would, that it meant, “You know, if you get around to it, it would be good, actually it’s nothing very serious, but it would be good if you could get your husband to run the car over to a gas station, or maybe just have a look himself, but really, only if you guys have time. Really, it’s nothing serious.” THAT’S what I would mean if I were a dashboard light. There SHOULD be light that says, “This is an absolute emergency and if you don’t do something right now, and I mean NOW, there are going to be dire consequences.” Unfortunately, that light has been removed from our car. So, really, until the loud clunking noise began, I wasn’t taking this too seriously. AS it turned out, I made a grave mistake. We needed a new engine. My husband ah...

First, a joke: These three guys go to heaven and when they get there, St. Peter asks them each to tell him a little about himself. So, the first guy says, “Well, St. Peter, when I was on earth I had an I.Q. of 165 and I was a rocket scientist” “Well,” says St. Peter, “this is wonderful news. We hardly ever get any scientists up here! Come on in!” And the guy went into heaven. The next guy comes up and says, “St. Peter, on earth I was a famous author and my I.Q. was 145. Can I come in?” St. Peter says of course, he would be delighted to have such a distinguished soul up in heaven. Next comes the poor third guy. He says, “St, Peter, on earth my I.Q. was only 38.” He was obviously heartbroken. St. Peter pondered for awhile and then he brightened up. “Did you get your deer?” My father’s birthday is coming up in a few weeks, and in anticipating that, I’d like to list some of the very best information that he left to his children while we were growing up: “NEVER feel sorry for yourself. No m...

Viva Las Vegas? #1 January 8, 1992 Well, I’ve lost my virginity—after two husbands and five kids. I’ve been to see the fat lady as they used to say at the old time carnivals. In fact, there were about a million fat ladies. We’ve been to Las Vegas for the first time. Impossible as it may seem, we’ve gotten to be this old and this experienced without ever partaking of this sublime experience. I hope it never comes back. We went to Las Vegas expecting to see SIN in all its many guises. I expected to be beguiled by evils, so to speak. At the very least, I expected drunks in the streets and a carnival atmosphere. No one prepared me for hoards of seriously intent quarter pushers, people with the deep expressions of chairmen of the board facing hostile takeovers. No one laughs while gambling. It’s do or die, guns along the Mohawk with these people. I didn’t except everybody to be middle aged. The women in matching hot pink sweatsuits with bejeweled and sequined tops, the men in logo-bedecked ...

The Eskimo Club December 10, 1991 Every winter Saturday morning, my younger sister and I would pile into the back seat of our black, 55 Chrysler with the pale blue seats, and my dad would whisk us downtown through Denver’s cold, bleak, empty early morning streets for the Eskimo Club. He used to brag that he was blind in one eye and couldn’t see out of the other one, it was definite that he was blind in one eye—he has a glass eye. And the other one had a big scar across the middle from a childhood accident, and he truly didn’t see very well from it. Mary and I would grab each others hands and squeeze tight, hoping we’d get to the train station alive. Behind us we’d hear horns honking and brakes squealing, but as my dad would also brag, he was never in an accident and had never had a ticket. He also smoked cigars, and as we sat in terror, we struggled to breathe. We were not allowed to comment on my dad’s cigar. We’d cough occasionally, discreetly, and if it wasn’t too cold, we’d crack t...

Pal O Mine December 4, 1991 Frisk is most ardent admirer: the only living being on the face of the earth who would never desert me under any circumstances. He wouldn’t be left behind if I was going to jump off a cliff without a parachute. This paragon of loyalty knows me better than my husband, has been here longer than some of my children, has spent more time with me than my oldest friends. He’s deaf as a rock and as energetic as a two year old. He never complains no matter how cold his paws are or how tired his little legs. He’s a real classy dog. The other day my son brought up all important philosophical question of whether or not your pets would all be with you in heaven and if you’d be able to talk to them. “Will they be able to tell you what they thing?” Frisky has seen me at my most frantic, most disgusting, most weird over the years. I don’t want to know what he thinks. He’ll be 16 this Christmas time. According to the encyclopedia, the first two years of a dog’s life count fo...

Little Things December 2, 1991 I have this ongoing dialogue in my head for when I’m feeling neglected—as I do for much of the Christmas season. It involves me when I’m famous and I’m being interviewed by someone who really cares what I think. Thousands of people who actually want to know my opinion about something. Ha! What a dream! Anyway, in this dream, someone asks me to define the theme of everything I write—the main thing I’d like to say to people everywhere if I could tell them just one thing at Christmas time that would make their world seem all right. What would I like to tell the leaders of the nations that would make them understand their role in history and bring lasting peace on earth and harmony to all men everywhere? I would say to them: clean sheets, a new toothbrush, a full tank, groceries for the week, and your bills paid. That’s what makes me happy. That’s what makes everybody happy. Some people might want to trade “a full camel” for “a full tank,” and some people mig...

Well, here it is, folks. The final exam of housewifery. The Grand Championship of Giving and the Pillsbury Bake-Off all rolled into one. The holiday season is upon us! Are you cute? Organized? Thrifty? Creative? Then you’re probably not reading this. This column is for the rest of us. The brave, the proud, the many—the ones who Just Don’t Get It. The ones who’s genetic makeup does not include the ability to distinguish the color “lightly brown” through the heat waves and can’t decide why anyone ever thought it up—and so are destined to never make cookies that don’t taste like homemade charcoal. The ones who can’t ever visualize a complete meal and so always forget something critical—like turkey or the dressing, or the gravy or the plates. The ones who can’t make neat square corners on packages and never think of anything more original than Scotch Tape to decorate with, and so every year, give presents that look like wads of wrapping paper that rattle when shaken. The ones for whom the ...