Cure for sass is on the tip of my tongue

When my son was little, I was trying to figure out a creative way to get him to speak respectfully instead of talking back. I was discussing this with my friend Kathie in Indiana at the time and she asked, “Have you tried bossy sauce?”

“What is bossy sauce?”

“It’s just a bottle of hot sauce I keep in my refrigerator and when my daughter gets sassy, I’ll ask her if she needs bossy sauce. When I put a drop on my finger and she tastes it, she winces and recoils from the taste, and then I can use it as a teaching moment when I say, ‘That’s how your words sound when you talk like that.’”

I thought it was a brilliant idea, and like most of my best ideas, I stole it.

I purchased a bottle of Smokin’ Hot Tony’s BBQ Sauce and placed it right inside the refrigerator door, right at Nathaniel’s four-year-old eye level. Whenever he started talking back, I’d ask him if he wanted bossy sauce. His eyes would get big, he’d snap his mouth shut and shake his head no, real solemn-like.

The mere mention of bossy sauce put the fear of God in him so effectively that I thought I had found the magic behavior management tool.

Then along came his sister.

Let me just say here that it never ceases to amaze me how two parents can produce children FROM THE SAME GENES who turn out so remarkably different. Those “switched at birth” scenarios really got me thinking one time, until I looked at my children’s physical characteristics and realized there’s no denying that they’re related. No, the sad reality is that she inherited this strong will … from her father.

When Lily started into her terrible twos (which are really terrible threes if we’re being honest here) I resurrected the bossy sauce trick, using the same crusty bottle. After all, why buy new sauce when I never needed the first bottle, am I right? I mastered this the first time, so it should be a piece of cake this time around.

One day, Lily started talking back and I asked her, “Do you need some bossy sauce?”

Lily cocked her head to the side, thought for a minute, and asked, “What is it?”

I pulled out the bottle and showed it to her. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “Let me try it.”

This was unprecedented. I froze. I expected her to be just like her brother and simply snap to, but she was going to challenge me on this. The question was: Am I going to really open a bottle that is six years old and offer it to my daughter?

I did. She did. And she said, “Not bad.”

And I was on to Plan B. Problem was, I didn’t have a Plan B. But we muddled through and I came up with a behavior plan suited to Lily’s temperament.

A few years later, I was having a horrible, no good, very bad day of my own. I had overslept, wasn’t feeling well and was impatient with everyone. At one point, I realized how nasty I was being and said, “Lily, honey. I want to apologize for being so impatient with you today. I’m sorry if something I said sounded unkind.”

She walked over to me, touched my arm gently, and said, “Mommy, do you need some bossy sauce?”

Thank goodness I had thrown it away by then.

Eileen Burmeister is a freelance writer who lives in Winchester, Ore. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

Merry Cucumber and a Happy New Yam

Six years ago, I was driving with my daughter, then 4, who asked from the back seat, “When can we go to the vegetable of lights?”

“What vegetable?” I asked, confused.

”You know, the place where we drive through and see all of the Christmas lights.”

Then it dawned on me that she was, in fact, referring to the annual Festival of Lights. And I didn’t correct her because, well, how cute is that? So to this day, our family refers to the annual show at River Forks Park as the Vegetable of Lights.
And the kickoff to the Vegetable of Lights is “The Nutcracker.” One time, before the ballet began, the Festival of Lights chairman came onstage and encouraged everyone to come check out the nudist plays at the event. Whodowa? I gasped. Then I took a few minutes to rewind what he was saying and realized he had actually said NEW DISPLAYS, not nudist plays. So apparently my daughter comes by this misinterpretation gene honestly.

When she was just 2 years old, I began taking Lily to see “The Nutcracker” at Umpqua Community College, and she did great until the rats come onstage. I think it may have been the larger-than-life dancing rats, coupled with the red, beady eyes and the scary music that sent her into a meltdown. I had to carry her out of Jacoby Auditorium as she screamed, “I no likin’ the rats! I no likin’ the rats!”

My first attempt to calm her backfired. I tried to tell her that the rats are really pretend, just like Mickey Mouse. Except Mickey doesn’t carry a sword ... or have red, beady eyes ... or a scary soundtrack behind him. OK, scratch that, I mumbled, trying desperately to regroup. But by this time she was wailing and I was failing miserably as a mother.

The next year was marginally better. She simply buried her face in my hair and only asked, “Is it done yet?” about a dozen times before I could most assuredly say, “Yes” and peel her fingers, one by one, from the stranglehold around my neck.

But as I watched the ballet I started to realize that aside from the incredible dancing, the rest of the story is quite alarming.

First of all, Fritz is a holy terror. I mean, what kind of kid takes his sister’s new doll and whacks its head off, resulting in nothing more than a finger wag and an “Aw, shucks” shrug from his dad.

Secondly, Herr Drosselmeyer, the toymaker, is about as creepy as they come. Seriously, a bow-legged man with wild hair and a patch over one eye? And this is the best they can do for the magical character in the book? I wouldn’t let this guy give me a ride if I was stranded on a deserted road, let alone invite him into my house for Christmas Eve.

But then heroine Clara falls asleep (a welcome respite from the ghastly Fritz, I’m sure) and goes to dreamland. Here’s where the ballet truly becomes amazing.

And it’s not because the nutcracker turns into a real man, and it’s not because of the incredible talent displayed by the Eugene Ballet. No, it’s because of the transformation that happens to dozens of young people from Roseburg each year, right before our very eyes.

During my 16 years in Roseburg, I’ve seen a neighbor girl who baby-sat my children be transformed from a lanky teenager to a graceful party guest, pirouetting her way across the stage. I’ve seen my son’s friend, Emily, the same baby to whom I fed strained peas in a highchair, become a graceful angel, winging her way dancing for Clara’s pleasure. And a few years later I watched Gretchen, a friend’s child I held just days after she was born, dance with the other baby mice on stage.

It’s nothing short of miraculous.

And that’s when I want to say to Herr Drosselmeyer, keep your magic dust. These young lives transformed on the stage, even if for just one night, are magic enough for me. And it’s a time when all of us in Roseburg can be transformed, even if for just one night, and become a little bit more of the amazing creatures we were created to be all along.

Eileen Burmeister is a freelance writer who lives in Winchester. You can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister or email her at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.

Black Friday indeed

Dear Woman in the Bathroom at Ross:


Last week, I was in the stall next to you. Perhaps you didn’t hear me, or see me, or notice my shoes under the stall. I really want to give you every benefit of the doubt.

It’s holiday season, after all, and maybe you needed to beat someone else to a clearance pillow case that you spotted moments before nature called.

And I know we women tend to be creatures of habit. I understand the impulse to close an open door, shove a drawer closed, or open a public restroom door with a paper towel. Truly, if ever there was a sister who gets habits, it’s me.

But really, could you have maybe stopped for one second and thought before turning the light off when you left?

I don’t know if you noticed, but there are no windows in the bathroom at Ross, which means it’s REALLY dark when the lights are off. I mean scary dark. Like I wish-I-had-never-seen-the-commercial-for-The-Blair-Witch-Project dark.

Trust me, I know that of which I speak.

At first I thought to myself, “Is this what going blind feels like?” I had just that morning been to the eye doctor for my exam, and wondered what he had used in those eye drops. He did say my eyes were aging, but surely he that didn’t mean that I might go completely blind at any given moment.

Then I realized that, no, I had never heard of anyone going blind instantaneously … in a Ross bathroom. This made me start laughing out loud in the dark, because really, why do these things happen to me?

I’ve heard it said that women are their own worst enemies, but a public bathroom does not seem like a fair battle ground. Talk about a vulnerable opponent.

Then I realized that I was the same woman who had given birth to two babies, changed diapers one-handed when necessary, and sat up all night with sick children. Surely I could get myself out of this personal Hades, right?

The first part, getting out of the stall, wasn’t too hard. Because really, we can do this with our eyes closed. But then I had to remember where everything was positioned in the room. Was I in the end stall or has I passed a few? Was I about to walk into the sinks? Was the door on the right-hand side or the left-hand side? Where exactly is the light switch?

When I was recounting my travails at dinner that night, my 16-year-old son said with a smile, “Why didn’t you use the light from your cell phone?” NOW he tells me! He can be a punk sometimes.

But that’s not the point, is it? The overriding question remained: What kind of women turns off the light to a public restroom?

So dear Woman in the Bathroom at Ross (may I call you WITBAR for short?), next time you choose to cast me into total darkness before going to browse the clearance pillow cases, please consider tossing me a bone. Maybe roll a flashlight under the stall before you leave?

Help a sister out.

No 'Keeping Up With the Fezziwigs' from this mom

Okay, I’m putting it in writing before I have a chance to become insufferable: I will not become a stage mom. You have my word on it.

Never mind that I was as excited as my 10-year-old daughter when she found out she got a part in the upcoming production of “A Christmas Carol.” Never mind that the four-day waiting period to hear if she had made the cast was completely unnerving (and she was a little stressed too).

No, I am completely in control and refuse to become another clichéd stage mom, a la the mothers of Honey Boo Boo or the Kardashians. I pinky swear.

And just to ensure that I will not go down that dark path, I have come up with the following Rules to Keep Me from the Slippery Slope that is Stage Momdom (or RTKMFTSSTISM for short).

• I promise that I will not wear a t-shirt that reads “My daughter totally rocks Act 1, Scenes 2, 4, and 7.” In fact, I will wear it only as pajamas from here on in (or maybe under another shirt on performance nights, like Superman).

• I promise that I will not start a standing ovation mid-scene immediately after my daughter delivers her one line in Act 1, Scene 7. However, if YOU can’t help but stand and applaud, I will gladly join you.

• I promise that I will not say my daughter’s line aloud with her while she’s on stage and I’m in the audience. Still, mouthing the line with her is not off the table.

• I promise that I will continue to keep it real by calling her by her given name instead of referring to her as Fezziwig Daughter No. 2 for the next three months of rehearsals.

• I promise that I will allow her to speak in her usual voice at home. However, I think it’s entirely normal to require the entire family to speak in British accents on rehearsal days. I’m confident that my family will happily get on board with this plan.

• I promise that if this acting thing works out, I will never ever let my daughter be on any Disney show whatsoever. I think we’ve seen how most of those careers shake out (I’m looking at you Ms. Lohan).

• I promise that I will not make any odd requests for my daughter’s dressing room prior to performances, such as Perrier water at room temperature or M&Ms with the shells peeled.

Of course I’m joking (kind of) but let’s be real here. It’s pretty darn hard as a parent to NOT get excited when you see your child doing something he or she loves. From her first steps, to her first ballet recital, she really is the best thing since sliced bread. From his first word (Dada, of course!), to his first karate kick, he is the coolest kid you’ve ever met.

So in essence, we all star in our own little plays that we call “life.” And I plan on applauding the loudest for the entirety of my children’s lives.

Bravo!

Eileen Burmeister is a freelance writer who lives in Winchester, Ore. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

The wind beneath your wings shouldn't hiss

I have this chair at work that is an exercise ball balance chair. It’s one of those Pilates balls that sits in a base with wheels, and it’s supposed to be more ergonomically friendly than your standard Mad-Men-era office chairs. (Between you and me, until this thing starts making my coffee when I get to work first thing in the morning, the jury’s still out on how much friendlier it is.)


I inherited the chair from my predecessor in the office, a yoga instructor who swore by the healing properties of the exercise balance ball. Seeing that my existing chair was torturing my sciatica on a daily basis, I thought I’d give it a whirl.

The problem is that the chair has a tendency to whirl when you least expect it to, making the promised “balance” seem like a wished-for dream. One time I bent down to tie my shoelace and almost ended up in the office next door. Through the drywall, that is.

Plus, my reaction time is slower since I have to take into account the physics of the chair. Let’s just say jumping out of my chair isn’t really an option.

Which is where I was three months ago when a loud, hissing noise was coming from the hallway outside my office. It sounded like a very large snake was warning someone that he had gone too far … not a comforting sound on your average day at the office. It startled me so much that I jumped out of my chair, propelling myself off balance from the balance chair (oh, the irony!) and nearly stumbled into the hallway to figure out what was wrong.

Other employees were out in the hallway as well, trying to discover the source of the hissing. Turns out it was a loose valve of the AC unit in the conduit hoochamajig. (This is why I majored in English and not engineering.) Bottom line, the hissing stopped.

But wouldn’t you know it, it happened again a few weeks ago. As the loud hissing started anew, I sat still this time, learning my lesson from before.

But the strangest thing happened. No one else started to congregate outside my office in the hallway. The hissing was as loud as ever, but no one seemed to mind except me.

Then I noticed something odd.

As I was looking out toward the hallway over my computer screen, the screen kept getting higher and higher as the view of the hallway disappeared. Was my desk rising? Was I melting?

Finally, I looked down and realized that this was no AC valve gone awry. No, my exercise ball had sprung a leak and my hopes of balance were rapidly deflating before my very eyes.

I took the ball home, sad and deflated of any balance it ever offered, and pumped it back up, all the while laughing over how long it took me to figure out what was going on.

I’m back on my perch, so to speak, but I realized that the exercise balance ball is a metaphor for life.

I’ll be sure to let you know what it is the moment I figure it out.

Eileen Burmeister is a freelance writer who lives in Winchester, Ore. You can email her at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

No exercise balance balls were harmed in the writing of this article.

Chevy Chevette ... it'll (not) drive you happy!

Our 16-year-old son recently bought a car from a trusted family friend. Sure, the car has over 250,000 miles on it, but this 1996 Honda Civic runs surprisingly well. Granted you might point out the dent in the hood from the past owner’s run-in with a deer, or the faded paint on the roof, or the crack in the window. But as far as first cars go, this one is a winner.


At least my husband and I can see that it is a winner, especially compared to the sorry jalopies we’d owned over the years (kids, ask your parents what a “jalopy” is). Of course our son, Nathaniel, wasn’t around when we owned these cars. Ever since he’s been old enough to remember we’ve had sensible and reliable family cars, and we’ve been blessed to be able to afford to get them fixed when they need it. 

He wasn’t around when we were newlyweds, poor as dirt, living in a 600-square-foot apartment and happily accepting day-old bread off of the Safeway truck. We were graduate students in love, and living from paycheck to paycheck. Macaroni and cheese made a complete meal, and date nights consisted of the $1.50 cheap theaters in Denver.

Before our marriage, I had a penchant for truly horrible car decisions. While I was paying my way through college, I grew tired of the beater cars that kept breaking down. As a commuter student, I needed a reliable car to get me to and from the university, so I decided to bite the bullet and buy a brand new 1986 Chevy Chevette. But wait! Why buy one when you can lease one for $10 a month cheaper and save yourself a full $120 a year? (At least that’s how the sales guy put it). Being young, thrifty and foolish I signed on the dotted line and leased myself a Chevette. For five years. With no option to own. Ah, youth!

The car, although brand new, went through three alternators in those five years. At one point, the driver’s-side door stopped opening, forcing me to climb over the console and exit out the passenger door. Then right about the time I was finishing up college, the passenger-side door stopped opening as well, forcing me to crawl through the hatch and hoist myself over the two seats. This was neatly timed with my student teaching at an area high school, making for an interesting entrance and exit each day.

After the “Chevette Lease Debacle,” I got smart and bought a used but reliable Nissan Maxima which I loved. I then started dating my soon-to-be husband. I heard through the grapevine that his last car was a VW van with carpeted ceilings and fuzzy dice. It was a match made in heaven.

Since then, we’ve made some wiser choices, learning from our many mistakes, but we realize that we’re only one step away from a really bad car choice. In fact, I recently passed a Chevy Sprint that had the back hack-sawed off like an El Camino wannabe, and I muttered, “There but for the grace of God go I.”

So now it’s time for our son to learn the hard way how first cars have the power to make your spirits soar and break your heart, all in the same afternoon.

Full disclosure: The Chevette was my SECOND car. My first car was even worse – a ’74 rusted out Dodge Dart. But that’s another story…

Eileen Burmeister is a freelance writer and reliable car owner, despite the dent in the back panel. She claims a deer ran into the car. You can email her at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

Ode to the Ellipses

In honor of National Punctuation Day, which was earlier this week, The News-Review is re-publishing this column from 2009.

Going cold turkey on National Punctuation Day

I know it’s wrong to use it in such a way, and I know that it’s become a crutch, but I must admit that I’ve been having an illegitimate love affair with the ellipsis for years now. Surely, I thought, I could find a support group among the many writers who have been similarly led down this particular primrose path of pauses, but alas … none existed.

Not to be dissuaded, I set out and started my own support group called “Ellipsis … Anonymous.” I invited everyone to my house at 2000 W. Maple … a place, I must confess, I bought for the address alone … and I served M&Ms in batches of three.

However the people who showed up tended to trail off midway through their stories, or stopped abruptly before staring off into space, which seemed appropriate but really stymied the healing process. It was … daunting.

I found myself wandering the streets that night, talking to myself, binging on one story after another without end, drinking deep from the nectar of incomplete thoughts until … I hit rock bottom.

It had gotten to the point where I couldn’t pause for breath in my prose without automatically hitting dot-dot-dot. I was ravenous … a wild animal on the prowl for a pregnant pause, a thoughtful moment or a half-baked idea so I could swoop in and get my fix. I was putting ellipses where commas would suffice … ellipses when em dashes would do the trick … ellipses when a yadayadayada would convey the same idea. It was all too much and I collapsed under the pressure.
I woke up the next morning in the gutter outside of a Barnes and Nobles, gripping my beat-up copy of “Love is…” poems and staring in the face of one harsh reality … I needed help.
I got up out of the gutter, flipped open my laptop and started writing … hair of the dog and all that jazz. What I was after was a mantra to get me through the tough spots, those times where it’s just so … tempting to use that one, single punctuation, albeit incorrectly. I needed a higher power to see me through, and … amazingly … this little beauty fell out of the sky like a penny … or coin … from Heaven:

God grant me the serenity
To accept the proper uses for the ellipsis;
Courage to use it when I should and deny myself when I shouldn’t;
And the wisdom to know the difference.

Doesn’t it seem appropriate, then, that today, National Punctuation Day, would be my quit day? I have decided to go cold turkey. No more ellipses for me. I’m clean and sober starting now of course that means I can’t use any punctuation for fear that the pause in and of itself would throw me headlong into a full blown relapse from which I might never recover until I could once again use my beloved and reliable ellipsis just saying the word makes this all the more harder until I simply … break … down.

They say that admitting the problem is half the battle, and I’m counting on that to be true. But right now, I have an inexplicable desire to learn Morse code and eat M&Ms. And besides, as my friend Scarlett once said … “Tomorrow is another day.”