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To paraphrase an 80s glam rock band: I didn’t know what I had until I didn’t. For over two months now, I have been on a quest for a name-brand product that has seemingly disappeared from the market. I have relied on this product my entire adult life never fearing that it would go the way of Elaine Benes’ sponges. But after a search that has extended across two New England states, reality has set in.
What is this mystery product that is in such demand, you ask? Well, it’s kind of like Elaine’s sponges except it’s used for an altogether different reason. The monthly kind of reason. If you are a woman reading this post, you know exactly what I mean. If you are a man and you are still reading this post, then Kudos! I bet you’ve stared down hordes of pimply faced teenagers at your local grocery store on your wife/girlfriend/daughter’s behalf.
You may think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not. And I’m far from being the only one lamenting the loss of her preferred cotton plug. CNNMoney.com reports that the dearth of O.B. tampons has created a black market for them. I’m not kidding. As they said, it’s “for reals.” Johnson & Johnson, O.B.’s maker and distributor has given no explanation for the shortage. Their website simply promises that O.B. tampons are increasingly in-stock at more stores nationwide. Only not in the six stores I checked over the weekend.
I reached my breaking point after dodging traffic on foot at a busy Boston intersection just so I could dart into a CVS pharmacy while my family circled the block in our borrowed car. Shortly thereafter, O.B.’s information center received the following missive:
Dear O.B. –
For over twenty years, you have been not just by my side but in my insides once a month for three or more days (definitely more since I’ve had kids). We ought to be better communicators given the intimate nature of our relationship. I’m not ready to break up with you but I have to say I’ve been really irritated by your unexpected absence. Where have you gone? What’s happened to you? When I stopped finding you on the shelves of my grocery and drug stores, I went online and read you were having “manufacturing difficulties.” Seeing how you’ve absorbed my troubles so handily over the years, I was willing to cut you some slack. I emptied all my purses and handbags of my just-in-case-I’m-surprised stashes and made do. But it’s been two months and I have had enough. I’ve been to CVS, Kinney Drugs, Price Chopper and Hannafords in two states and found just empty shelves staring back at me. Your competitors have nothing on you; it’s just not the same. Please tell me when you will be coming back. I can’t stand this much longer. I need you.
In desperation and loyalty,
Mary
Who would have thought that a tampon could inspire passion?
At the end of December, the fates conspired against us and our furnace and our washing machine broke close to simultaneously. We live in Vermont, where it gets so cold (it is currently -25 degrees Fahrenheit) that some schools will close upon hearing the weather forecast (not ours, thank goodness!). Accordingly, our first priority was to ensure that our house had heat and hot water. I contrived to make the washer limp along until I reached the end of my patience with it. I was sure I’d make it a few months. The new one arrived today, in all its energy-efficient, front-loading glory. 
Next to the coffee maker, the washing machine is the most important appliance in our house. If I had to, I would hand-wash our dishes. But there’s no way in hell I’d hand-wash our clothes. After my husband came home, I encouraged the five of us to crowd around it like the proverbial golden calf. They oohed and ahhed for about five seconds before the boys lost interest and drifted away.
“You may not EVER get inside this machine,” I said to Medium, who had stayed behind to watch me fold laundry.
“Why not?” asked Medium.
“Because if the door closed, you wouldn’t have enough air and you would die.”
“Oh,” she said.
“And your brothers shouldn’t ever get inside it, either.” I added, thinking I was emphasizing my point.
“Why?” she asked.
Sometimes I wonder just how much my children care for one another.
There’s a woman in town whose path often crosses mine. She is lovely and very sweet and she never fails to say hello to me. And for the life of me, I cannot pronounce her first name.
I know what her name is and at home, it rolls off my tongue (I’ve practiced). There are songs that have her name in the title and songs where her name is in the chorus. You’d think I’d remember this when I see her at the grocery store, the gym, in the parking lot of our kids’ school.
Sometimes, I call her by her daughter’s name. Sometimes, I get it out with the emphasis on the wrong syllable. Most times, I smile widely and nod. Always, I am mortified. I do not blame her if she believes me to be an idiot.
Embarrassingly enough, she’s not the first person that I have had this mental block with. My first week of college, I met a guy named Andy. I thought his name was Gary. Over the next few months, he had to correct me so often that I jokingly began hedging my bets when I ran into him by calling him Andy-Gary. It stuck. He didn’t care much for my company (go figure). Even today, when I thought of him I had to pause and ask myself, Was it Gary? Or Andy?
My apologies kind lady; I mean you no disrespect. I will try not to make your musical name sound so discordant. In the meantime, I won’t be offended if you start calling me something else. I’m thinking I deserve it.
Small and I were charged with supplying “city food” for 17 preschoolers today.
My first thought was to steam hot dogs and serve them in stale buns; my next was to make sushi rolls. I settled on a more palatable mid-morning snack and something infinitely easier for me to provide – fresh bagels. 
We arrived at our regular bagel place bright and early. Henry marched directly to the potato chip display. Before he could open his mouth to say, “I want,” I had elbowed our way through the commuters to the counter and given my order to the heavily mascara-ed twenty-year old behind it. “I’d like eighteen bagels, please.”
She smiled blandly at me. “Would you prefer a dozen and a half?”
I paused and stared at her. Was she joking? I hadn’t finished my quart of coffee yet, maybe I had misunderstood her. “Yes,” I said, “That’s what I want. A dozen and a half. Six plain, six cinnamon raisin and six sesame.”
She snapped a brown bag open and began filling my order. “What was the last kind, again?”
“Ses-a-me.”
“Sesame, sure. Do you want a different kind for your extra bagel?”
“What extra bagel?”
“Oh!” she tittered, eyeing me like I was the idiot. “We do a baker’s dozen. You know, thirteen instead of twelve.”
“Oh,” I said. “What a relief you can perform simple math, after all.”
Alright, I didn’t really say that last bit. I just thought it. Don’t mess with me before I’m fully caffeinated.
I sit with a steaming mug of coffee and the laptop, idly surfing the net. The furnace guy has just left and I have mopped the floor to erase his bootprints. He has erased my kitchen island budget but he’s given me the gift of hot water and so I am determined not to complain (much). Henry is happily watching the Cars movie for the nine millionth time. I contemplate a shower.
Forty-five minutes and many clicks later, I make lunch. Such a treat to have a morning at home. Three loads of laundry done; all the dishes washed and put away. Lots of time left to get ready for Nora’s teacher’s surprise baby shower. I go through my To-Do list mentally: Shower gifts wrapped? Check. Extra presents for kids who may not have a gift to give? Check. Reminder email sent to other parents? Check. Tablecloth and utensils packed? Check. Serving utensils for the cake? Check. The cake? F*#%!
I had remembered to order the cake but I hadn’t remembered to pick it up.
“Henry, put on your boots! Go to the bathroom! We’re leaving!”
I got dressed this morning in deference to the furnace guy. I had not, however, bothered to comb my hair or put on make-up. We have no time now for such niceties. Henry moseys over to his coat, windmills his arms like he’s off-balance and collapses to the floor, laughing.
“Boots! Coat! Now!”
Slamming the van in gear, I peer out the smallish hole I scraped in the windshield. I pray the defroster works quickly. I spray washer fluid to speed up the melting process. I curse our useless garage and my idiocy for forgetting my own plans. How is it possible to forget the task one assigned to oneself? Damn! Damn! Damn!
“What did you say, Mommy?”
“Nothing! Don’t listen to me!”
I estimate the amount of time needed to drive to Costco, park, purchase the cake and drive back. I calculate how much time I have. Not enough. What to do? My mind races. Brendan! He works half-way between home and Costco. I speed dial his cell. He doesn’t pick up. I call it again. Ditto. I call the phone on his desk. He answers on the first ring. He’s eating lunch. I skip the issue of his not answering his cell phone and get to the point. Can he pick up the cake? He’d like to, but no, he can’t. He doesn’t have his membership card with him at the office.
The van slides into a parking spot at the grocery store. I plead with Henry to hurry. We run to the bakery, nearly bumping into a friend of mine. I shout over my shoulder, “I’ll call you later about that playdate tomorrow!” She raises her eyebrows at me and nods. I know I must look like I’ve lost my mind. I pick out two cakes that cost more than twice the price of the now superfluous Costco cake. I ask a young baker to write out Nora’s teacher’s name. She messes it up. Twice. I dart to the check-out trailed by Henry who has helped himself to a double dutch chocolate muffin and has dark brown crumbs ringing his mouth.
We make it to school with five minutes to spare. The receptionist, either noticing that I am balancing two cakes and a bag with a large knife or catching the crazed look in my eye (or both), courteously signs me in. We ignore the “No Running” rule and fly down the hall, gathering class parents along the way.
We’re just in time. The rest of the plan goes off without a hitch. Nora’s teacher is surprised and pleased; the kids are thrilled. I exhale. It’s all good.
Happy holidays everyone. If you’re in the area, please stop by. I’ll be serving Costco cake between now and the end of January.
OINKtales 
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