BoomerGirl Diary

Every time my sons come home they search through all the recent mail, bills, magazines, and any newly purchased books. They move onto cabinets and closets. You’d think they were being paid by a private detective agency. They listen to messages, check my email, and generally snoop around to see what’s new.

“Did Dad buy some new gym shoes?” This is a frequent question as both sons check out Bob’s wardrobe, just to make sure he hasn’t acquired some new shirt, sports coat, or really anything that someone under 30 might wear. I don’t mind this question so much because I can guess where it’s coming from. There’s usually a long pause.

“I just want to take over his old ones if he got some new ones. I need some shoes just for hanging around… or walking the dog…”

Sometimes there’s even competition for Bob’s old shoes. I can remember when Arna got a job requiring “dress” shoes and he cornered Bob. “You don’t really like these shoes do you? I really need them…”

“Hey, I’ve always liked those shoes. They’re kind of retro. I don’t think Dad should give them to you…”

Sometimes Bob acquiesces on the shoes. Then there’s the kitchen, another area of special interest. After a thorough inspection of all the cabinets—“that’s really fattening…Dad shouldn’t be eating that. Would you like me to take it home?” Or the other question, “Who got this medicine? I’ve had a cold for a week.”

“People shouldn’t share medicine.” I remind them. I’ve even had to defend my position, “I am really sick. I need that medicine…”

But last Saturday, I waited for the usual critique of all recent changes. My son approached me in utter shock, “Is that a National Enquirer on the counter?”

“Sure I guess so, “ I tried so hard to be casual.

"Well, who does it belong to?” my son pushed on.

“Oh, anybody who wants to read it.”

“I know Dad didn’t buy that. Did you actually buy the National Enquirer?”

Now I admit I thought about lying, blaming the newspaper on a visitor. I’ve tried so hard to be a good example and to cover up bad habits like occasionally watching “Judge Judy” or “Jerry Springer” mostly at the car wash. I’ll never forget a very amazing segment where men liked to dress like babies and were actually on TV, dressed like babies. Anyhow, I plowed right into it, “They broke the story about John Edwards. I was just curious about other political stories that might be true, revealed first in the National Enquirer.”

“Does Dad know about this? …I can’t believe it… Pretty soon you’ll be subscribing or …I don’t know what”

“It’ll be the last time. I’ll tell you what.”

I have learned more than anybody wants to know about young celebrities who drink, throw fits, wear revealing clothing (even no underwear), take drugs, and to my great dismay there was a story on Toby Keith. Now right in my kitchen I have a picture of myself with Toby Keith at an Oklahoma football game. They were playing Kansas State at the Big 12 Tournament a few years ago and a friend took our picture. So Toby in a bar with his arm around a young woman in a revealing red dress was quite a shock. Of course, National Enquirer provided a lovely picture of Toby with wife and children. So it’s double edged, I wanted to warn my son. And you can’t go back.

“I’ll never buy it again. I used to like so many of these kids on T.V., but they all have become the brattiest teenagers ever. Doesn’t anybody have parents?”

“Mom, you don’t actually believe that stuff.”

“No, no. I was just curious…What about that huge stack of papers over in the corner—the New York Times, Kansas City Star, USA Today, the Journal World.? Didn’t you notice them?”

I got busy very quickly, straightening the kitchen and ditching the National Enquirer. I figured he’d tell his brother, his wife, and everybody else.

Then his brother came in, “Hey mom. Why did you go to El Mexcal the other day?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I saw this receipt and it looked like two people went.”

“I took my friend Susanne. For your information.”

“Was there a special occasion? You’re always telling me to eat lunch at home,”

“I was so thrilled that you went back to school that I had a special celebration.”

“Really?”

“No.”

I wanted to get this over with. I wanted to ask them both if they found any other incriminating evidence. I had thrown away pizza boxes, bags from Borders, and hidden Bob’s new shoes. The National Enquirer was a real gaff. I’m out of practice. I need to kid proof my bills, papers, and miscellaneous items. Or maybe I’ll become “a bad influence,” something I’ve mostly avoided for 25 years. The next thing you know I’ll be cussing, watching talk shows during the day, and maybe even sneaking off to get a tattoo. Unlike my sons and their searches, I have to do most of my investigative work on the phone. I ask various probing questions which are usually answered evasively.

The other day after a frustrating attempt to figure out my son’s plans for the weekend I finally said, “Okay, the bottom line is if you are spending next weekend at an outdoor rock concert similar to Woodstock, I’d like to know ahead of time so that I can worry appropriately.”

“Is that the absolute worst thing you can imagine?”

“Pretty much.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I figure if you know everything we do, why can’t I know everything you’re doing?”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. I’m a kid. I need to sneak around. Anyhow, you and Dad don’t do anything interesting…”

So I guess that I’ve been fairly successful. My new life without the constant presence of kids has only minor problems. I can’t take belly dancing classes because I figure they’d find out. My luck one of their friends would be in the class. Meanwhile, I think I’ll go pick up a shredder. And please, Toby. No more hanky panky.