In Heaven There's No Money, No Stuff– and No Porta-Potties: Coping With Life's Aggravations By Finding the Funny

© Mary Ann Hoyt 2018

Print ISBN: 978-1-54395-150-9

eBook ISBN: 978-1-54395-151-6

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

To my husband, Paul

Contents

Introduction

The Convent or the Lights on Broadway

MourningMisty

My Evolution as a Minimalist

The Crumb

Pillsbury Bake-Off

Hocking the Jewelry

The Sailor’s Wife Comes Full Circle

Afraid of Hummingbirds

Public Restrooms

My Struggle with Mindfulness

Cranberries and Silver

Speeding Ticket—Because It Felt Right

Tweezers

Sailors and Clutter

Learning to Cook Without Butter (most of the time)

The Plastic Jungle

I Hate Cilantro

My Fashion Consultants

My Money Challenges

Beans and Bones

My Back Seat–Front Seat Driver

The Wannabe Activist

Getting in the Wrong Car

Compartmentalizing

Dolls and How My Christmas Shopping Has Evolved

Passwords

Hyperventilation in the Craft Store

A Marketer’s Dream

Our Asymmetrical Time Clocks

Shoe Stores, Peep-toes, and Pedicures

Paper Towels

My Love Hate Relationship with Bleach

Minimalism and My Handbag

Sorry, Mom

My Unused Coupons

Voice Activation

Belated Cards

Speaking of Holiday Cards

My Plants

Adult Children—Grandchildren—Walking a Fine Line

My Guardian Angel

Marriage and Politics

Broken Glass, Marbles, a Shag Carpet, and a Kidney Stone

My Backup Plan

Our Opposite Thermostats

Blowing My Cover

The Lipstick Dilemma

Pick Your Poison

The New, the Old, and the Socks

The Peanut Butter Jar and Other Plastic Containers

Sunglasses

Surfing

Time to Relocate

Time to Downsize

We’re Building a House!

Closing the Door to Another Chapter

Movin’ On In!

Energy Efficient

First Impressions

Applying for Health Insurance

Parking

My Unphotogenic Smile

Facebook

The Final Check

Jeans

The GPS Lady

Stop Clicking!

The Accident

Ironing—What’s That?

Sports—Pain—Weather

Grocery Cart Amnesia

Running into Glass Doors

Wraps

Who Will Blow Dry My Hair When I’m Old?

Home Away from Home

The Two Times I Almost Stopped Eating Chicken

How Did the Ants Find the Donuts?

Elevator at the Westin

The Audi

Turkey Vultures

Trivia Night and My Ego

I Want to Fix Everything

In Heaven There’s No Money, NoStuff—and No Porta-Potties

Acknowledgements

Introduction

I Want Writer in My Obituary

My favorite book as a child was Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. I guess if you’re under 40 you might be saying, Louisa who? When I gave it to our 11-year-old daughter to read, you’d have thought she was struggling through a historical analysis of the IRS.

Jo, a character in the book, was an aspiring writer and my idol. So in sixth grade, I went up to the attic in my parents’ row house, dusted off an old marble-topped table, and placed a vase of daisies in the corner. I sat there gazing out the window overlooking South Mountain in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, and started my first novel.

Don’t be impressed—I never got past the second chapter. Was this my first experience with writer’s block—or did I hear my girlfriends banging on the front door?

So I became a poet. My first rejection slip came from McCall’s magazine. It held a place of honor on my bedroom bulletin board next to a photo of Ricky Nelson.

My life spun into fast forward after high school—a nursing career, marriage, four kids, a few published articles in nursing magazines, and most recently, social security checks. Oh geez, did I just type the words social security checks? Well, I’m not getting any younger and if I want writer in my obituary someday, I’d better focus on tapping my words onto a keyboard and hitting save, instead of losing all of my random musings forever in my cell phone.

You might think I have my life’s act together by now, but I don’t. Read on and you’ll see what I mean.

The Convent or the Lights on Broadway

I always kept my parents guessing about my future. With my writing aspirations on the back burner, I vacillated between becoming a nun and starring on Broadway. The romantic idea of being called to a life of prayer and donning a flowing black veil sprouted in my brain the year I had a very saintly nun for my fifth grade teacher. At home I’d walk around with a towel over my head imagining myself in a Carmelite convent. My plan became undone when confronted with the idea of a vow of silence. Maybe I could be a Maryknoll missionary in the East Indies instead—keeping my dream but not my mouth shut.

And then—the lure of the lights on Broadway! If only cell phone videos were around back then, my singing aspirations would have been squelched immediately. I was in one talent show after another, which my parents and siblings loyally attended. As a high school sophomore I auditioned for the lead in The Sound of Music, and won a part with a single line to sing. That should have been a clue. But no.

Undeterred, as a junior I tried for the lead in The King and I, disappointed to find myself cast as one of the king’s ten wives. Still not willing to take a hint, I expected my talents to be appreciated, finally, during my senior year in the musical, South Pacific.

That’s when my downward spiraling theatrical career came to a crashing halt. I made the stage crew. To see how I probably came across in the auditions, just watch a You Tube video of Dirty Dancing where Jennifer Grey’s sister, played by Jane Brucker, practices the song Hula Hana for the resort’s variety show. Yep, that was me.

Was I headed back to the convent? Not quite. I volunteered at the hospital as a Candy Striper, feeling like Florence Nightingale herself—delivering water to the patients. Yes, I’d leave Broadway and the convent behind to become a nurse, trading a nun’s habit or sparkly costume for a starched, white nurse’s uniform—still a costume, of sorts. I wore my RN badge and 1970’s cap with pride.

I worked the 7-3 shift on the medical-surgical unit of our community hospital, taking a sabbatical when our kids were little. When I started nursing in the ancient year of 1970, we didn’t use computers or even wear gloves when starting IV’s. We felt invincible back in this simpler time. The superbugs were just bugs.

Speaking of bugs, the writing bug in my brain lay dormant for years but it started buzzing shortly before retirement. A couple of nursing magazines risked their reputations and allowed me to share my thoughts via my fledgling essays. What an adrenaline rush to find I now had a voice and my colleagues actually wanted to know what Nancy Nurse had to say.

It wasn’t until retirement though, that the writing bug became its own super bug and really sunk its stinger into me. It’s now or never, I figured. Sitting in front of the computer for hours on end, pulling words out of my head and attempting to make them somewhat coherent was not as hard as I expected. After all, that unwillingness to shut my mouth in a cloister is just as true today. Never one to keep things close to my chest, my life has always been an open book.

So, you’re about to read my open book. If you find yourself rolling your eyes or smirking at my shortcomings and fiascos, believe me—I don’t take offense. I’ve learned to smile at life’s absurdities, (mine in particular). It gives me the comic relief needed to plough through each day.

Mourning Misty

The only pets I had growing up were the guppies from my science fair project. On the day I was awarded Honorable Mention, they were floating, lifeless, on top of the water in the fish bowl. The project was entitled How Guppies React to Stimuli—the stimuli being me, tapping the side of the bowl with metal spoons of different sizes, and shining bright lights into the water. Luckily, nobody leaked my experiment to the SPCA. I was shocked on awards day to find them dead, but I guess that was a valid reaction to the stimuli. Surprisingly, they didn’t revoke my award.

Years later, a 2-month-old honey colored, stray kitten wandered into our New Jersey backyard one evening. Paul, my husband, told the kids who were begging to keep it—Only if it’s ok with your mother. I hate when he says that.

Even though a cat was a far cry from a guppy (and you know how that ended), I had no good reason to say no. Back then there was no Googling to find out how to care for a feline, so I did the next best thing. I announced that the kitten and its presumptive germs had to sleep in a box in the garage that night, and the next day I would deposit him at the vet to get all his shots and have him checked out for cat diseases. I figured that was a good start.

The kids christened the cat Misty. And, even though it turned out to be a male, everybody voted to keep the name. He settled into the routine of the Hoyt house, though I had to make the basement his bedroom after I felt paws in my face every night at midnight, scaring me out of a deep sleep. Don’t judge me, cat lovers. He was happy in the basement with an old baby blanket to snuggle in.

Misty was declared an indoor cat the instant I saw him climbing out of a storm drain in the street one day, a mouse clenched in his teeth. However, keeping him inside the house was no small challenge. Having lived in the wild the first two months of his life, he could sense an open door faster than I could slam it shut. The neighbors got a show every time the four Hoyt kids (along with their mother in a fluorescent pink bathrobe) went dashing around the front yard, trying to corral this furry feline who’d hidden behind a bush.

And then came the flea incident. Since I never had a pet, I didn’t have a clue about fleas. God only knows how long Misty provided shelter to these nasty little parasites. I thought the flea excrement in his fur was just the remnants of crushed leaves and dirt from his latest escape outside—until my neighbor enlightened me. How gross—my house was infested!!!

I went into full attack mode, first bringing Misty to the vet and asking them to do whatever it is they do to de-flea cats. Then I went home to de-flea the house with flea spray and the vacuum cleaner (the first and last time my house was free of dust balls).

Misty never had a flea problem after that. If I had even the slightest inkling his fur was hosting a flea, I chased him around the basement with a threatening can of flea spray. I often wonder if the absorption of a tad too much flea spray led to his early demise at ten years of age. He started getting lethargic, hiding behind furniture and not eating. After bringing him to the vet, I was informed he was probably dying of kidney failure. Oh dear God. Like the guppy incident, I hoped I wasn’t responsible, as I really came to love the little guy.

Sharon and Eleanor, our older two kids, were in college and they insisted on coming home the weekend before he died. It was a wake for the living, as he was still with us. Tearfully, we passed him around the room and everybody said their goodbyes.

A couple of days later, he died. Brian and Annie, our younger two, helped me orchestrate the funeral, which took place under a mimosa tree in our backyard. Misty was buried in a cardboard box decorated with Brian’s pencil drawings of The Grateful Dead. He was wrapped in his old baby blanket while Annie entwined her purple plastic rosary beads around his paws. As the police patrolled the neighborhood on that dark, autumn night, I saw them glance out their car window as I was holding a flashlight over Brian, the grave digger. I steeled myself for some serious questioning. This didn’t look good.

The police didn’t stop, and our sweet Misty was buried. Our lives moved forward, having experienced the magic and beauty of becoming attached to someone other than a human.

My Evolution as a Minimalist

Iconsider myself a minimalist, and not just because it’s the trendy thing to be these days. I have never liked clutter (it makes me anxious), or hanging onto stuff. It’s not to say that our house was never messy—we had four kids. Even our empty nest sometimes looks like a tsunami raced through; but what I actually choose to save must truly tug at my heartstrings.

That’s because I wasn’t always a thrower. My saving phase began when the kids were babies. They each had a memory box with their first lock of hair, first Stride Rite shoes, and scores of programs from scout meetings and sports events. The best evidence of their academic genius from each grade was stored in manila envelopes.

Our children would not be caught lacking proof of their worthiness for a Nobel Prize