Obsessed by the mob (of meerkats, that is)

Lori Borgman

Our social life may have hit a new Friday night low. One of us (I won’t say who, but it’s not me) now looks forward to watching a show on the Animal Planet about meerkats. (A meerkat is a mongoose that looks to be half cat and half weasel and walks on its hind legs).

In this other person’s defense, this animal show is part reality TV and part “Desperate Housewives.”

Meet the Meerkats of Wisteria Lane.

Yes, I know, even with the twist, it’s still kind of sad, isn’t it?

And to think we used to spend Friday nights out on the town, having dinner, going to clubs, partying with friends and salsa dancing until dawn. Oh wait. That wasn’t us. That was some celebrity couple I read about in a magazine at the doctor’s office.

Well, then, to think we used to spend Friday nights roaming about the natural history museum after hours, where dinosaurs and civilizations from the past all came to life and wreaked chaos and mayhem. Wait. That wasn’t us either; that was the Ben Stiller and Robin Williams movie.

So maybe Friday nights have always been a little slow.

It just seems like the slowest of slow now that the husband has coaxed me into watching mongooses burrow underground, give birth, ferry their young about and hunt for worms and insects. All of which is narrated by a man who talks like he sincerely believes each mongoose has a distinct identity as well as tangible hopes and dreams for world peace and a cure for coffee breath.

The narrator intones with deep concern: “Mozart is fearful what this latest development may mean for the future of the mob.” The camera shows Mozart, a meerkat, standing tall, silhouetted against the setting sun.

“He is probably eyeing some small rodent to devour or has caught a whiff of barbecue in the air,” I huff.

“No, I think he is pondering the future of the community,” the husband says. “He’s very smart.”

Some of us are more easily taken in than others.

“Look!” he says. “It’s Shakespeare. He was injured last week and hasn’t been eating well.”

He leans in close and says, “See the wound on his back leg? It’s looking better.”

The narrator, now analyzing Shakespeare’s recovery and mental state, has clearly led the husband down the merry mongoose trail.

In a recent episode, a mother gave birth and fussed over her brood with tender devotion. After a commercial break, however, she did an about face and the narrator indicated she was deeply torn over whether or not to kill another meerkat’s babies that were intruding in her burrow. Later, two siblings were pronounced negligent in watching their wounded brother as they scampered across the desert.

It was reminiscent of the soap opera digest that runs in the paper.

“Zarf showed up for a date with Bianca dressed as a woman named Zoe. Ryan took Spike away from Kendall, fearing he was in danger. Jonathan attacked Zarf/Zoe after he was questioned about the murders.”

With some costume changes and a little make-up, I think the meerkats and their narrator could pull it off. It wouldn’t be “The Sopranos” or “ER” or some other steamy night-time soap, but it would be something.

And to think that next Friday night two firecrackers such as ourselves will probably be sitting on the couch with the remote in hand waiting for the action. That’s assuming we’ll still be awake.

Enough water to sail the plane

Lori Borgman

When you have 60 passengers in an airplane idling on a snowed-packed runway for two hours, it would seem the last thing you’d want to do is start handing out bottled water.

But, hey, what do I know? I’m the mother who used to tell thirsty kids on a long trip to save their spit and swallow it.

And what do I know -- I’m also the one who didn’t think it was necessary to chew out the teenage girl and her mother at the security screening because the girl had a tube of mascara in her purse and not with her other liquids and gels in a plastic bag.

The security screener said it was a gel, the mother said it wasn’t. The screener said it was, the mother said it wasn’t.

Let’s say mascara is a gel. Let’s say all mascaras are gels -- brown, dark brown, black, midnight blue, Cover Girl, Maybelline, L’oreal. What did the security folks think the girl was going to do -- hold the plane hostage by threatening to lengthen the pilot’s lashes?

If they want a real weapon, they ought to be shaking down female passengers for eyelash curlers. If you’ve ever jammed one of those puppies in your eye, you’d know they can inflict some serious pain.

In any case, I’m not about pain. I’m not about withholding food and water. Not until now.

We have sat so long on the runway watching it snow that the pilot announces we have to head back to the gate because we have burned up all our fuel. And after we refuel, we will have to de-ice again.

The stewardess flies down the aisle offering bottled water as a consolation gift.

The gesture is appreciated, but you don’t have to be a math whiz to know that 10-ounce bottles of water multiplied times 60 bladders exceeds the capacity of one small bathroom wedged behind row 20.

Two minutes later, a line forms for the bathroom. Forty minutes later, the pilot comes on the intercom again and says the snow is so heavy that deicing may not be possible.

Sensing a restlessness, if not an outright riot, the stewardess again flies down the aisle offering more bottled water.

Twenty-ounces times 60, carry the one, bring down the zero -- projected numbers are even worse than the round before.

Two thoughts cross my mind. First, I am thankful the seats are on a raised platform about two inches off the floor. Second, I fear we are going to need our seat cushions for flotation purposes, and not in the unlikely event of a water landing.

And now the stewardess has snacks. Peanuts, crackers, salty snacks. And salty snacks make passengers – what?

That’s right, thirsty.

Water anyone?

A man returns from the back of the plane informing the stewardess that – shocker -- the toilet is overflowing “like Lake Erie.”

The stewardess calls maintenance. We refuel, wait for lighter snow and maintenance to work on the water levels in the bathroom.

Umpteen bottles of water and 4 1/2 hours after our scheduled departure time, the pilot announces we will attempt take off once again. Prepare for departure and turn off all electronics.

There’s a new message on my cell. It’s the airline calling – they wanted to let me know that my scheduled flight may be experiencing problems.

I wanna hold your hand

Lori Borgman

Alas, there is sweet news for the season of love -- holding hands is back in style. Not that the practice of holding hands ever went completely out of style.

Politicians have long held their spouses’ hands at victory celebrations. Stars routinely hold hands when they sashay across the runway, and newlyweds almost always hold hands once the minister pronounces them husband and wife and they fly down the aisle.

We shake hands when we meet, we hold hands when we pray and we communicate tenderness with three squeezes rapid-fire (I love you).

Mothers have always lead children by the hand across streets, through parking lots and bustling crowds, fingers intertlocked in a basket weave of care.

And now the New York Times has uncovered a resurgence of holding hands. A college student interviewed for the story claims that holding hands these days is more intimate than kissing. He said reaching for someone’s hand has more potential for rejection than leaning in for a smooch at a party where alcohol is flowing.

Holding hands has become the new intimacy, a hallmark of connectedness and a declaration of commitment.

I was thinking about this comeback of holding hands at the gym the other day, watching a couple in their late 20s wandering about the weight room. They wore sweat pants, T-shirts and white towels draped around their necks. Reading the instructions on each machine, they moved from the Nautilus to the arm curl to the leg curl and the free weights – all the while clasping hands

A little too connected for my taste, but a whimsical contrast to the raucous couple in the music video on the television dangling from the ceiling. The couple at the gym spoke to one another softly, gently and respectfully.

Holding hands is all those things.

And for couples so completely inseparable, may we introduce Smittens, a functional pair and a half of mittens. There are two single mittens, one for your free hand and one for your loved one’s free hand, and a tandem mitten for your joined hands to share. (Hand holding just went from sweet to sappy in under 10 seconds and for only $34 plus shipping.)

All this handholding jogged my memory back a few years to a surgeon’s office. The doctor, warm and caring, was performing a minor surgery with local anesthetic. He said he was trying something new. He introduced his nurse and announced that her job was to hold my hand. It seemed a little goofy at first, but was actually quite reassuring. Hands down, he was a man ahead of his time.

Another study at the University of Virginia, reported in the Psychological Science journal, found that happily married women experience almost immediate stress relief simply by taking their spouse’s hand in theirs. Could it be?

At church recently, the congregation stood for worship and I glimpsed a woman still sitting, tears streaming down her cheeks. She was holding the hand of her husband, who was standing. He was reaching behind his back, arm crooked, a bit awkward, but holding tight. A poignant picture of love, commitment and connectedness.

Perhaps holding hands is not a new intimacy, but an old intimacy rediscovered by people weary of holding nothing and yearning to hold something. Whatever the reason, I hope it holds.

Blessed are the parents who say no

Lori Borgman

When our children were little, they would often ask for things, and we would often say no. We would tell them that there was a long-lost beatitude that said, “Blessed are the parents who are broke, for they have reason to tell their kids no.”

We weren’t really broke, but with one parent at home, we did live on a tight budget. Our missing beatitude somehow made sense to the children, and we often had conversations like the following: Can I have a pony?”

“No.”

“Can I have a Playstation?”

“No.”

“Can I have Barbie’s Malibu dream house that comes with a personal access code garage door opener, kitchen trash compactor, refrigerator with ice-maker, large-screen television and surround sound stereo system and five differently outfitted Ken dolls housed in the master bedroom closet?”

“No. If anyone gets a house that nice, it should be you father and me, not you and Barbie.”

“Can I have a television with cable hookup and a DVD player in my bedroom?”

“No.”

“Can I have a new car when I turn sixteen?”

“No.”

“Can I breathe?”

“Maybe.”

Our system worked fine for many years until one day the oldest child challenged the missing beatitude dictum.

The boy boldly proclaimed, “I do not believe there is a missing beatitude that says, ‘Blessed are the parents who are broke for they have reason to tell their kids no.’”

We had been found out and, of course, this mess was our entire fault. We never should have taught the boy to read. Or think.
Naturally, we confessed that there was no missing beatitude. We also confessed there was no great surplus of cash.

Furthermore, we confessed that we really were thankful the answer to their wants was often an easy no because as we looked around there was a lot of confusion between wants and needs. There was all this whining and whimpering about needing this and needing that, and having to have more, and have newer, and having to go here and go there and sign up for this and that. And that was just the noise coming from the adults.

It is difficult to tell your kids no, especially when they know you have the resources to say yes.

Today, we are among the richest people in the richest nation in the history of time. There are the “haves,” the “have nots” and the “haves a lot.” On a global scale, nearly all of us in this country would fall under the heading of “haves” or “haves a lot.”

The dark side of this wonderful abundance is that when left unchecked it creates a monstrous appetite for material things. And the monster demands to be fed. Frequently. Routinely. Loudly.

Here’s a good question: When was the last time you told one of your kids no?

Here’s an even better question: When was the last time you told yourself no? (You’ll notice I’m not answering.)

We Baby Boomer and Gen X parents don’t like saying no. We would rather live on credit, run harder and faster, and stay at the office longer telling ourselves that we are “doing it for the kids.” And maybe we are doing it for the kids.

The great irony is, our kids don’t need more things. What they really need is need more us.