Saxon Bennett's Blog, page 5

THE BIG TRIP, Part One

I slapped a fat manila folder down on the table. “It’s finally done. Now we can go.” I was thrilled.

“What’s this?” Layce asked, gingerly picking up a corner of the folder as if what’s inside might leap out and snap off a finger.

“It’s the history of Hot Springs, demographics, weather predictions, must-see sights, morning walks mapped out, the best place for coffee and lunch, a list of all available hotels and their amenities, coupons, more maps, and reviews I want to compare to see just how people come up with those snippets on TripAdvisor, and a detailed packing list of all the things we’ll need to make our trip a success. Do you have any questions concerning your packet?”

“Huh?” Layce asked.

“You need to read all that so you’re prepared for our trip. I’ve included photos so you can get the feel of the place. See,” I handed her a series of photos of the Garvan Woodland Gardens. “And that’s the Grand Promenade,” I said indicating another photo. We’ll walk that the first morning. There are some great coffee shops along the way.” I pointed to the list of coffee shops, bistros and restaurants I had compiled.

“You have times listed here,” Layce said, scanning down the page.

“I made out a daily agenda so we wouldn’t miss anything. It just makes things easier. You get up, and you have your day all set up because your wife is taking care of everything. Now, I think you should go pack.”

“We’re not going for another six weeks.”

“No time like the present.” I grabbed the car keys.

“Where are you going?”

“To get the oil changed, the tires rotated, and a 52-point inspection. You don’t expect me to leave town without doing that. Safety first.”

I looked down at the presentation folder as it sat looking forlorn on the table. “Why aren’t you reading? You’ve got a lot of material to cover in six weeks. I expect you to be fully prepared.”

“Will there be a test?” Layce asked. She’d gotten up to pour coffee.

“No, but I put a lot of time into researching.” I put on my best pout face.

“But this is like watching those movie trailers that are too long. After you watch it, you feel like you’ve already seen the movie.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to go now?” I asked.

She flipped through the folder and said, “All the best stuff’s in here. We’d save a lot of money if I just read this. Then we wouldn’t have to go and spend a fortune on a vacation.”

I snatched the folder out of her hands. “Forget it. You’re not reading this.” I dumped it into the trash. “Forget it even existed.”

Layce smiled and walked out of the room humming a tune that sounded a lot like We Are the Champions.

Why do I get the feeling I was just bamboozled?

Stay tuned for The Big Trip Part Two.

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THE OK FOUR-WAY

Picking Emma up from school involves three stops—all of which are four-way stops—all of which require much patience. Some background info on southern social mores is required, so just imagine the Bennett-Gardners sitting in their burgundy Jeep stuck in the endless loop of “You go. No, you go, I insist. No, I couldn’t possibly. You go first. No, you,” at a four-way stop.

In the south, people are polite—almost to a fault. It’s nice. A woman in Oklahoma does not change her own flat tire. Despite feminist protests, a man will not, not change your tire. In fact, he will plead with you to do so because his wife will not allow him back in the car if he doesn’t.

There isn’t a boy or man in Oklahoma who’s mama hasn’t taught him to open a door for a woman. If a woman is even in the proximity of a door handle there will be a guy running across the parking lot to get to the door so they can open it. It’s a requirement here in the south. So don’t even think about touching that door handle which is fine by me because door handles are germ central.

No one tells you to piss off here. Rather they say “Bless his heart.” This is code for what a jerk but I would never say so because I am southern and we don’t do that here. Then they smile and offer pie. If this person is really mean we say “I’ll pray for them.” In southern speak that means you’re a super-charged asshole.

That’s the problem with the four way stop. No one wants to go first because that would be rude. It’s required to do the Alvin and the Chipmunks “No, I insist” rule.

“Ugh,” I said, sitting through this ritual like every afternoon.

“At least in Oklahoma we still have manners,” Layce pointed out. She gestured for the car across from her to go first. They shook their head and gestured for her to go first.

“I would like to get home in time for dinner,” I said.

“I know, we could play Rock, Scissors and Paper then whoever wins gets to go first through the stop sign,” Emma said.

At that moment, another car approached the stop sign, barely slowed, then quickly turned, revving their engine and roaring away down the street. We watched with open mouths.

“Must’ve been a Yankee,” I said.

“Bless his heart,” Layce said.

“I’ll pray for them,” Emma said.

 

 

The Cold, Hard Truth

I had been led to believe I was the perfect child for most of my adult life. Then one day my mother dragged out a box of letters that she’d written to my departed grandmother. They told a completely different story—a story of a tyrant, an errant flower girl, an anarchist Brownie (not the kind you eat) and a Halloween Scrooge.

It goes like this. Every day after grade school, the neighborhood children gathered at our house. One late afternoon as my mother took out another pitcher of lemonade, my father asked why everyone always gathered in our backyard.  My mother looked at him coolly. She pointed at me. “Because she can’t be the boss at someone else’s house.”  This was true. I prefer to control my own environment even now.

This need for control got me ousted from Brownies. My mother decided that socialization with other little girls would be a good idea. She dressed me in brown and sent me off. The first couple of times were okay. A bird pooped on our leader’s head during a bird watching session. I enjoyed that but insisted from then on I would always wear hats when in the woods. Which I still do.

It was the crafts part of Brownies that was my undoing. I thought it was inane to roll up pages of magazines and glue them to the outside of an empty gallon ice cream container in order to make waste baskets. As I pointed out, I already had a waste basket and I didn’t think taking away much needed manufacturing jobs was the sort of thing the Brownies should do—especially during dire economic times.

The next letter’s interlude had to do with my aunt’s wedding. For some reason unbeknownst to anyone other than my four-year-old self, I had gotten peeved about my flower girl dress and had what we refer to in my family as a “hissy fit.”  So, as was described in the letter, I held up a wedding, further stressed out the bride and refused to ever return to the wedding’s country of origin—Bicktoria (Victoria), B.C.  I have since returned.

As a child I adored Halloween. It was less about the dressing up and more about the acquisition of free goods. There would be few times in life that people actually opened their doors, smiled and cooed, and handed you candy. Halloween seemed the only time that adults did not fear hoards of children coming at them. At the end of the evening, I would dump out my pillow case full of candy and begin the inventory. I sorted the candy bars and treats into their respective categories and tallied up the totals. I went to bed and the next morning got up and recounted my inventory. Some were always missing. My parents denied any knowledge of the missing treats.

My mother put the letters aside. We studied each other. “You always told me I was the perfect child,” I said.

“I lied.”

And that’s how I found out the cold, hard truth about my younger self.

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Butter-Sitting

“I warned her,” I said. Layce and I were at a play in Tulsa. It was date night—only it was two o’clock in the afternoon. (This has nothing to do with our advancing years so banish that thought from your head. We like matinees.)

Another frantic text came in but the house lights have gone down so Layce turned off her phone. “She’ll be fine. It will teach her life skills.”

“I don’t know if it’s such a good idea to let her practice on Butter,” I said, biting my lip.

Layce patted my hand. “Emma is perfectly capable of taking care of Butter.”

I settled into the play and guiltily forgot about Butter until intermission. We went out into the lobby to stretch our legs.

“Aren’t you going to check your phone for messages?” I asked, trying not to sound frantic.

“We’re on a date. Butter will be fine.”

I tried to look relaxed. “Yeah, sure.”

“Oh, all right,” Layce said, and turned on her phone.

I leaned over to look. Emma had left ten messages, each one worse than the last. Emma was doing a complete overhaul on her room and, in theory, Butter was supposed to sit in her laundry basket on her blanket and chew on her chew toys while Emma worked. This did not happen.

“She won’t stop crying. And she keeps getting out of her basket. I can’t get anything done. I had to get out the baby sling and carry her around.”

“She sounds a little overtaxed,” I said. I was trying to be diplomatic. Butter made me feel the same way. I haven’t practiced my guitar, or sewed, or read, or colored, or anything else that tended to last more than fifteen minutes at a time.

“She’ll survive,” Layce said. “I did. I had Emma attached to my hip for her first three years. She was like a giant wart who gave me tendonitis.”

“Is this payback?” I asked.

“It’s more like preparation,” Layce replied.

The lights flickered and we went back into the theater. As I sat watching the play, I thought that it wasn’t Butter I should be worried about, it was Emma.

When we got home, Emma was at the door holding Butter and looking the most frazzled I’ve ever seen her—including finals week.

“Here, take her,” she said thrusting Butter at me. “I have to go lay down.”

Butter was happy as a clam. She licked my face. We both sat in my recliner. She fell asleep immediately. I sipped my coffee and read. Maybe Emma could Butter-sit again next weekend.

 

 

Pass the Butter, Please

We decided after our beloved furry ones passed over that we’d go dog-less. Layce and I like to travel and since Emma is getting older, soon to be in college, we’d have more mobility. So we decided we needed a break. Layce said she’d cleaned up way too much poop between a baby and doggies over the years.

That was before Butter came along.

Every day Layce and I hike the Murrell Home Trail. It’s close to town and loops around a lovely copse of trees. Last Thursday, we found three puppies someone had dumped and abandoned. They were dirty and hungry and soaked in motor oil. There was only one thing to do, bring them home, clean them up, feed them, and take them to the vet. We’d figure out homes later.

We named them Peanut, Butter and Jelly. Here’s a picture of Emma holding the ‘sandwich.’

Our vet told us they had mange, which was why they were covered in motor oil. It’s a myth that the oil kills mange. He gave them shots and medication for worms and mange.

I made the mistake of asking if we were going to have mange. The answer was yes, but you’re a dead host so it won’t last long. I immediately started scratching.

“Come see what mange looks like under the microscope,” the vet said. My curiosity got the best of me. I had to look. (Don’t ever do that. Just sayin’.)

“Make sure you pick up all their poop in the yard. The worms will get in your soil and then you’ll have more worms,” he said.

I was now certifiably freaked out. I have mange and my backyard is now a toxic mind field.

Next order of business… find homes. This facilitated a full blown anxiety attack, which meant I didn’t sleep a wink. The next morning, I found three puppies sitting in their crate looking repentant because most of their kennel had wormy poop and lots of pee. I immediately took them outside. I then put on my biohazard suit and got to cleaning up. I was only halfway through when Layce came downstairs and sniffed.

“Don’t worry, I got it under control.”

After gulping coffee, feeding, pooping outside, (not me, the puppies), playing, then watching them crash, I emailed the Humane Society. They were helpful but it was Friday and there was not a lot they could do until Monday.

Layce got on Facebook and did a call out to the Tahlequah peeps to see if anyone had a good home that needed a new family member. Sure enough, Jelly got her forever home on Sunday. The next one, Peanut, got his forever home on Monday. It was with a teary goodbye we let Peanut and Jelly go. That left the runt, Butter. I knew if Em and I were going to get our very own peeing and pooping machine now was the time. Butter, the little runt with only one good eye, was staying—worms, mange and all.

Butter weighs in at two pounds, has some pipes on her to rival Lady Gaga, and loves recliners, shoes and bare feet. She has stolen our hearts and required two trips in as many days to PetSense. She goes everywhere and seems to be everywhere. She is our very own little Butter Bean.

The most common phrase heard around our house is “Pass the Butter, please.”

What Do Zombies Eat?

Written by Saxon Bennett and Layce Gardner

People always ask us where our ideas come from. I usually answer that our books are born in our kitchen. I don’t know why the kitchen. Perhaps it’s the nurturing idea of food, perhaps it’s the smells, the tastes… Honestly, I really have no idea. All I know is that the kitchen is where most of our books are born.

Just like our newest book. We gave birth one day while Layce was cooking.

I was setting the table when I suddenly announced, “I have an idea.”

“Do I want to know?” Layce poured more batter in the pan. We were having one of my favorite dinners—pancakes. Layce makes great pancakes.

“We need to take a break from romantic comedy—try something new for a bit. Stretch our legs,” I said.

“What do you want to write about—zombies?” she said jokingly.

“That’s a great idea!”

“But I thought you said you already had an idea?” Layce said.

“My idea was about writing something new and different—I just didn’t know what. But now I know. We’ll write a story about zombies.  Only we’ll make them lesbians.”

“And we can have these bad ass women fighting them,” Layce said.

“There’ll be lots of danger, and remember all the contingency plans I have for an apocalypse? We can use those ideas. These women will be really smart and resourceful.”

“Why are we making the zombies lesbian?” Layce asked.

“I thought you’d never ask. The zombies attack the vajayjay, not the brains…”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, that’ll be the funny part,” I said.

“I like it,” Layce said sounding less uncertain..

“You do?”

Layce handed me a short stack of pancakes on a plate. “We’ll call it ‘Attack of the Lesbian Zombies.’ Like it’s a B-movie. It’s a satire on all things zombie. And it’ll be a trilogy.”

“Now you’re talking,” I said, smearing butter over my pancakes.

“I’d read it.”

“I would, too.”

And that’s how our latest book “Attack of the Lesbian Zombies” was born. Right in our kitchen, over pancakes. If you rush out and purchase the book right now, you will also receive a short stack of Layce’s famous pancakes.*

Attack of the Lesbian Zombies is a five-part episodic saga. You can read it in parts—for only 99 cents each— or you can download the entire book (parts 1-5).

And if you subscribe to Kindle Unlimited, you can read the entire book for FREE!

* This is not true. We ate all the pancakes.

 

 

The Towel, The Pillow and The PBJ

Layce and I were at the department store looking for new bath towels. We started first with picking out colors that would go with the bathroom.

“How about these?” I asked, holding up a bath sheet. A bath sheet appeared to be a bath towel built like a Hummer.

“I don’t want a bath towel…” Layce said.

“It’s a bath sheet not a bath towel,” I interjected, unraveling one to take a look at what made a bath sheet so much different from a bath towel.

“With a flag on it,” Layce finished. “Or an alligator or a horse.”

“So no bath sheets with logos. Got it.” I continued my search moving over to the Martha Stewart Home Collection. Martha evidently didn’t believe in logos. I checked out the price—18.99. A bit high but not completely unreasonable, until Layce told me we needed six.

“Why do we need six? One set on the rack, one set to replace, wash, trade out. The other two are just sitting there taking up room.” I noticed that it was a bath towel that was 18.99 not a bath sheet. Now, I had to figure out if I was holding up a bath sheet or a bath towel. I measured it against myself.  Yes, I was definitely holding a bath sheet—a 29.99 bath sheet.

Layce stared, with evident hostility, at a hand towel. “This hand towel is 16.99. That’s highway robbery for a hand towel.”

“I think it’s an oversized hand towel.”

Layce stood glaring at the shelves of towels as if they were foes to be vanquished. It was time to leave.

“Maybe we better leave off the towels for now and go look at pillows, maybe we’ll have better luck with pillows,” I suggested.

I tried to refold the towels as best I could, which wasn’t good, and went to find Layce.

I found her jabbing a finger at a pillow. “This is a 200.00 dollar pillow!”

I gave it a poke. It didn’t seem to be that special. “Well, we definitely won’t be buying three of those. Or do we need six?”

Layce narrowed her eyes at me.

“They have other pillows. Here look at this one,” I said trying to divert her attention.

“I’m mad at this store. We’re not buying anything and just for having overpriced bath sheets, oversized hand towels and two hundred dollar pillows, we’re keeping our pillows and towels. That’ll teach them.”

I refrained from saying ‘but they won’t know.’ I know, well, most times, okay just sometimes, I know, when to keep my mouth shut.

We walked by the food court. “Let’s have lunch,” Layce said.

“But what about the PBJ sandwiches I packed?” I said. I hadn’t known if we’d have time for lunch before heading home. I was prepared for this scenario as I am prepared for most scenarios, having a minimum of six contingency plans. Subsequently, I packed sandwiches.

“Okay, I mean, if sitting in a cold car eating a PBJ sandwich is better for you, then by all means.”

I looked around. I wasn’t mad at the food court. I had the world of food at my disposal. Had I lost my senses? This was so much better. “We can always have them for dinner.”

“Sure. Let’s go get some bourbon chicken.”

By the way we had the PBJ sandwiches for dinner in the warm house and without the delicious smells of the food court. We showered using our old towels and fell asleep on the same pillows. Ah, for victory.

Extreme Sewing

“They feel funny,” Layce said pulling at the inseam of her freshly tailored palazzo pants. She pulled at her butt and then her crotch. She pulled the waist up…

“Oh, don’t do that,” I said. We all know why. She pulled them down. “Better.”

“There’s still something wrong,” she said.

“It may have been your tailor,” I said.  I was her new tailor and I knew why the pants felt funny. It was my fault. She wanted me to alter one of her maxi skirts into palazzo pants. Trusting me to do it was her first mistake.

I looked up on YouTube on how to do it.  It seemed simple enough. Mark this. Cut that. Sew seam. So I did all that—only I did it backwards. This facilitated cutting more seams and sewing it all back together again and when I did all this some inches had been lost in various areas–butt, crotch, waist, but not the length. They were long enough just not in the right places.

This fiasco did not daunt me. I continued to sew. I lost needles and pins only to step on them later. I was covered in thread. My command of the pedal resembled a student driver—lurching forward at 50 mph then slowing to a snail pace and everywhere in between.

I almost lost a finger while vacuuming up my sewing mess. A loose piece of thread wrapped around the vacuum’s roller and when I tried to get it out, it garroted my finger. It happened so fast that by the time I turned the vacuum off my finger had turned blue.

I remained undaunted. Next on my project list was a vest. The pattern I’d chosen seemed simple enough. In sewing there’s a lot of ‘simple enough.’ I showed Layce’s mom the pattern and asked about how to read the algorithm on the back which told you how much fabric I would need. While making  place mats I’d been to the fabric store three times for more fabric, more thread, and more bias tape so I wanted to save time and gas and get the right amount of everything because it always seemed I had too much of this and not enough of that.

All of this was received with “Do you have any idea what you’re getting into?”

“No, but that’s the beauty of it. Extreme sewing. You’ve got to start somewhere and just take the leap.”

“That’s sky diving, not sewing,” Layce informed me, tugging at the crotch of her pants.

“Same difference—the moment of truth always arrives. Just look at your palazzo pants.”

P.S. I’ll post a photo of my vest if I ever finish it.

 

 

 

BEING BAD

I was making English muffins. The package had an oversized red rubber band to keep the package closed to ensure maximum freshness. So while I was waiting for my muffin to toast, I played The Rubber Band Game.

It goes like this–shoot the rubber band as far as you can. Now these oversized bands have long range capabilities as I discovered. I shot the first rubber band at the window. It struck with authority. The downside of the The Rubber Band game is that unless you have a well-trained toddler who is a proficient retriever you have to do it yourself.

I solved the problem by getting out the bag of rubber bands. I’d do clean up once instead of going back and forth to get one. I fired away until…

“What are you doing?” Layce said. Now when a parent asks that question it starts out rhetorical unless what you’ve done is super bad. It is then followed by “What have you done?” This question may or may not be rhetorical. It’s usually a indictment of having committed a felony offence.

“I’m playing The Rubber Band game.”

“It looks to me like you’re shooting extremely large rubber bands all over the house.”

“It’s an old school shooting game, you know, like before video games,” I said. I fired off another.

“You’d kill Emma if she was doing that. You’d say ‘What are you doing? You’re going to break something.'”

I’d noticed lately that Emma and I were lumped together a lot especially when it came to BAD behavior and Emma was not perpetrating the BAD behavior. She was used as a way to reform my behavior. Did this mean that I was the worst child in the house–the black sheep? It was suspiciously looking that way.

Layce had previously caught me bouncing a small plastic ball, the kind you get out of the gumball machine, while I was waiting for the coffee to brew.  She told me to stop because I was tearing off the popcorn ceiling stuff. She pointed to the white residue on the floor.

I always have to push the envelope so I did it  one last time because I’m a grown up and I have civil rights—unlike children.  That time Emma had come out of her room and said, “What are you doing?”

My infraction was revealed and followed by an eye roll. The rubber bands were different. I wasn’t damaging anything.

“I’m going to pick them up. I realize I’m not wearing safety goggles but other than that I am a certified rubber band shooter. If you recall I used to work for the post office and every postal person worth their salt is an expert at the firing of rubber bands.”

“I don’t care if you had a license. You need to cease and desist.” Layce glared at me with her I-am-serious-look usually reserved for Emma.

I looked at her defiantly and fired off one more, which wasn’t usually that big of a deal. She’d let out a huff and move on. But this time I was off the mark which usually wasn’t bad—unless you hit the Christmas tree.

Now in my defense I did not knock it over. What I did do was send a few ornaments flying off. I will admit that there was some damage. Layce didn’t take highly to my suggestion that if she was that concerned she should call the home insurance company and report me. Instead she took my rubber bands away and handed me the broom.

Emma came out of her room and said, “What’d she do this time?”

Layce held up the rubber bands. “She hit the tree.”

“It was an accident,” I said.

“You’d kill me if I did that,” Emma said.

I kept my mouth shut and swept up the broken shards of Christmas ornaments.

Emma opened the microwave and exclaimed, “Why is there a melted crayon in here?”

I shrugged innocently. Maybe too innocently.

Layce glared at me. “What have you done?”

Oompa Loompa Pants

Layce’s parents were coming over for dinner and I wanted to look nice plus it was an excuse to try out my new black pants. I had gone shopping by myself and found the essential part of any wardrobe—black trousers. I was pleased with myself. I’m wardrobe-challenged so Layce usually picks out my clothes.

The black pants I’d chosen fit well, not too tight around the waist and the butt had some room—perfect. I chose a gray sweater after trying on a blue one, a green one and a red one. I even took the time to look in the mirror before I came downstairs. I was satisfied—even excited because usually my outfits aren’t the best combos. I figured I couldn’t go wrong with this one.

“What do you think?” I asked Layce. She was making dinner.

She stood back and took me in. She came over and pulled on the sides of the pants. She wrinkled her brow, stood back again and said, “You need to pull them up higher and wear a belt.”

“I like wearing them down lower. My tummy doesn’t like being smothered by pants.”

She stared at the poofy part of my pants. “You’re supposed to wear your pants up around your waist not hanging off your hips.”

Now she had me concerned about the poofy part that was sticking out on either side of my pants. “What are these?” I asked pulling on the fabric.

“Your hips are supposed to fill them out but you don’t have hips. Pull the pants up where they’re supposed to be and you won’t have Oompa Loompa pants.”

“These aren’t Oompa Loompa pants,” I said indignantly. “Are they?” I was losing confidence  with my choice of pants.

I pulled them up around my waist. I pulled them down around my hips. Down seemed to make them less Oompa Loompa-ish. “See they’re better this way,” I said.

“Yeah, well, I can see your crack now. Next time I need a plumber I’ll call you.”

“What should I do?”

“Get new pants.”

I went upstairs and changed. Getting dressed was always going to be a challenge for me. I should’ve let her pick out the pants. But left to my own devices…