You never know when your own fossilization is going to fall on you like a piano from above. 

For me, that moment came when a friend’s nine-year-old flipped open her brand-new cell phone to show me all the features. It was way better than her “old one” she informed me, which was “lame and did nothing.” For the record, she had her “old one” for approximately one year. 

Now, I’m a tad older than nine and my old cel phone weighed about four hundred pounds and the only time it “flipped” was if I dropped it. My “new” cell phone is a few years old, is not pink, and has no abilities beyond making and taking telephone calls. I guess that counts as “lame” don’t you? Fabulous. My accessories are being outpaced by a nine-year-old’s. 

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Well, it’s been almost a year since I wrote my first critical post on Jon and Kate Gosselin. Of course I had no idea what I was getting into. Never could I have imagined that a reality TV show would be met with such ardent opinions, with Kate Gosselin turning out to be quite a polarizing figure. The very mention of Kate Gosselin to those who have caught the show conjures up resentment on one side and admiration, and even sympathy (dare I say “pity”), on the other.

I have mentally divided the “pro” Kate crowd and the “anti” Kate crowd and even though I don’t watch the show on a regular basis (I lost a lot of interest after the first few seasons), I do happen to catch it once in a while. I was never a super-fan, but found some redeeming values in Jon and Kate and can now admit after catching a few reruns that I really can’t stand Kate Gosselin. There, I said it. Now, lest I be associated with the obsessive-stalking-loathing-Kate camp, I wouldn’t waste anymore bandwidth on the subject matter than this post is taking up. Subscribing to the KIA philosophy (Kate is an a-hole), is priority number 16,232, after plucking a stray eyelash out of my eyelid. And even though I have come to terms with the disgust for this woman, I’m not as prepared to run with the KIA crowd. In no way do I want it to be part of my identity. First of all, I have many internet friends who happen to like her, and I have been known to reach across party lines to embrace those with differing opinions [Ed. note: You're such a maverick]. Second of all, I kinda like having my very own villain. Even if it doesn’t make a lot of sense, I kept on watching the reruns while cursing at the television. In fact, the more angry I got, the more I stayed glued.

So, either Kate Gosselin is an a-hole and doesn’t care, or she’s an a-hole who knows how to keep viewers entranced or enraged. After all, Howard Stern gained his popularity by listeners that hated him more so than from listeners that loved him. Something tells me that she isn’t that smart though.

Or is she?

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I am not a pioneer. I have been heard to say (often and loudly) that it would pay Mr. Wonderful to remember that he did not marry Ma Walton or any one of those insufferably plucky Ingalls girls. I was raised a city kid. I turned a spigot and water came out. I flipped a switch and lights came on. I turned a thermostat to 80 and my mother had a coronary. This is how I roll.  

Then we moved to the country. Overnight I went from a wholly reliant on public utilities type of person to someone with the equivalent of her own water treatment plant in the basement. This is to treat our well water which is hard as iron and will cut you if left untamed. We run it through our own little answer to a municipal treatment plant just to beat it into potable submission. We also heat with wood in order to stay abreast of heating bills running slightly less than the national debt. While a money saver, the wood stove and all the resultant stacking and chopping (and swearing) does have a distinct air of the pioneer about it.  

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So, I’m in the market for some black pumps. But like a lot of working moms out there, finding time to sneak off on my own for an extensive bout of shoe shopping can be somewhat… challenging. I made the mistake of trying to take a peek at a few shoes today while shopping for gym shoes for my oldest son — which I’m sure anyone who has taken two kids under 10 along shopping already knows that was a completely pointless exercise.

Well, I’m an online shopping kind of gal, anyway, so I decided to go that route instead. I’ve bought from Zappos before, pretty painless. They have “free” shipping — free for anyone who is dumb enough to never have comparison shopped and noticed that the shipping is built into the price. But more importantly, they have free shipping back to them if it doesn’t work out.

So, I’m browsing through the pumps, trying to figure out which ones won’t hurt my toes, and I came across the most beautiful, practical, and mom friendly shoes I have ever found in my life, especially for a “working girl” like me. In fact, they impressed me so much, next time a family member or friend is about to birth their next baby, I know exactly what to get them for their trip home from the hospital…

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So, the saga of our severely fucked-up neighbor family continues. A couple of days ago, they knock on our door, grubby two-year-old in tow. The kids say he was scratched by our cat, and they’re taking him to the doctor for it.

Yeah. It gets better.

After they get home from their pediatrician’s office, they come over asking for our cat’s vaccination records. To see if the kid needs rabies shots, you understand.

For a cat scratch.

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It is said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. 

If this is so then someone call the men in white coats because I am definitely insane.  

Get. Group sleepovers are one of those things you either get, or you don’t. There is no middle ground. By “get” I mean you, as a child, get them if your parents are perhaps insane (see above) or have very short memories and limited attention spans. Much like gnats.  

If your parents are the smart type with long memories and all their synapses firing in working order, you probably had a group sleepover once. Generally this once-in-a-lifetime window of opportunity in your parent’s sanity will take place around a birthday. Said parents will think it a fine idea to have a bevy of children spend the night.  

Rules. Generally this one sleepover will be governed by the International Rules of Small Group Sleepovers in that no one will really sleep, alliances will be made (and unmade numerous times throughout the party) and tempers will fray to the breaking point. International Rules further govern that it’s really not a successful sleepover until someone either cries uncontrollably for no apparent reason or goes home in the middle of the night with their pajama clad parents mumbling apologies.  

The smart parents then vow never ever again to let such a thing happen on their watch. This is why I had exactly one “group sleepover” in the 8^th grade. My mother is no fool. 

I apparently did not get that savvy sense of self-preservation from her.  

We have had someone (sometimes multiple “someones”) sleeping over nearly every single night this week. You may think this is because I’m a Super Fun Mom. You would be wrong. This is because I am a stupid, stupid woman and I forget *every darned time* and say yes to this all over again. Only when it is far too late - both figuratively and literally - to change my mind does it all come rushing back.   

The children are lovely, they really are. It’s just that International Rules of Mob Mentality apply here. Thus, some small guest will inevitably find our food or facilities lacking (I never try to feed a kid liver and onions but a child who will only eat “round food” is a bit of a pill). Someone will try to terrorize Mrs. Seabolt by announcing they “might” be allergic to some food they have just ingested. Finally, a guest will have a meltdown over something or other. Usually a game that is not going their way, that someone has looked at them wrong, or perhaps that the very dust motes in the air were not to their liking. 

I know, I know in my heart of hearts that at 8, 9 and 10 years old this is actually a sign that an otherwise sweet child has had enough and needs to go home, but at what point will I finally learn to cut it short before we get to this point? 

(Note to all my friends reading this with a sinking heart. I don’t mean YOUR children. YOUR children are lovely and could do no wrong. Seriously. This is all about those OTHER kids. You know the types.).  

Still, the truth is, I would – and will - do it all again in a heartbeat. We loving having kids around, really we do. We didn’t fashion this childhood wonderland so I could wave my fists and yell at small children to stay off my lawn. No, Mr. Wonderful and I both agree that it is truly a blessing to have the children around. We really like knowing where our kids – and their friends – are. I just wish we didn’t know by the whining.  

Until then, as the old song goes “they’re coming to take me away ha ha!” and I’m fine with that as long as they take me to a nice, soft bed.

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Don’t you love it when your mind finds new ways to fuck with you while you’re asleep?  Last night (well, technically, this morning) I had a new stress dream. 

Oh, I’ve gone through the old universal ones—running late to take a final exam for a class you’ve only been to one time and now can’t remember what room it’s in; the gun that won’t shoot the bad guy, the scream that won’t come out of your throat, the legs that run in slow motion.  Yeah, all of those.  Then I’ve had one particular to living in my home town—the elevator in the Sears Tower gets stuck while I’m in it and I need to get out the escape hatch, which takes me to a rickety fire escape on the outside of the building, where it is raining ice and there are hundred-mile-per-hour winds blowing at me up there on the 90^th-something floor.  Another one that plays on my fear of heights—the amusement park ride that looks innocent enough from the ground but ends up with my little car being catapulted into the stratosphere where no amount of screaming can save me.  And even one that was unique to having gestational diabetes and a scheduled c-section towards the end of my last pregnancy—sitting in an IHOP with a mountain of pancakes that I’ve eaten half of, drowning every bite in their syrup, then suddenly realizing with horror that I’ve got three minutes to get to the hospital for my c-section!  Oh, no, I won’t make it in time, and I’ve eaten recently, so maybe they won’t do the operation, and oh, God look what I’ve eaten, the doctor will be so pissed!  And I won’t get to have the baby as planned!

But, today I had a new one.

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The other day my neighbor came over, and I questioned him about his sons first day of kindergarten. He shared with me that he enjoyed it, and seemed to be learning, but he wasn’t happy with the homework.

Uh wait back the hell up. Homework? In KINDERGARTEN?

It seems like teachers these days flood their kids with the H.W. I remember my little brother coming home from school with at least 2+ hours of assignments to work on, and after that it was a scramble of dinner/bath/bed before he got up at 6am to do it all over. What happend to you know, coming home and resting? Having a healthy snack and going the fuck outside? Or sitting on the couch reading a book?  Does a five year old really need to come home and work on his ABC’s until 7pm? It’s all busy work anyway. Here: copy these letters 49 times until you memorize them, because apparently that’s what learning is. Kids that can get straight A’s aren’t brilliant, they just have excellent memories.

I don’t want my daughter to be glued down my homework. I want her to learn about plants one day, and mathamtics the next. I want her to spend entire afternoons reading if she feels like it, and I want to take museum trips, and travel the world. We COULD do that on the weekends yes, but I really feel like public school systems are FAILING. I’ve found alternative, crunchy schools I’d love to send her to if I had $40 grand a year I didn’t know what to do with, but I don’t.

I went to an alternative school.  I didn’t get homework. I still email my teacher and I think about my sunny, rich learning experiences I had there on a daily basis. But I was lucky, and I went because my public school footed the $40 grand bill. That school has changed it seems too.

So I think about home schooling. I think about the things I know - and the things I don’t know, and I figure I can work it out. Maybe I won’t do it and I’ll suck it up and find a school I can tolerate, or maybe I will and next time you see Paige and I we will be en-route to Maine to eat Lobster and learn about fishing. WHO KNOWS.

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 I firmly believe that two of the most daunting – albeit well-intentioned – statements in the English language are thus: “When God closes a door, He opens a window” and “God has a plan.”

 Granted, I believe that the above statements are all TRUE. It just seems that so often the timing is all off. There’s no finesse. Frankly, when people are reeling from a loss or disappointment both great and small, they need at least twenty-four hours to wallow. Some will need more, some a little less, but I think the true hallmark of a supportive friend or loved one is their ability to allow a sufferer to whine quite a bit. To flounder in a little pond of self-pity, running all the scenarios of utter injustice in your mind until you can work your way up to a real sense of martyrdom. Frankly, some self-indulgent pouting and ranting really can be a good for the soul.  Further, while I realize that there is always SOMEONE who is worse off than you - sometimes you really don’t need to hear about it RIGHT NOW. Example: telling people left homeless by Hurricane Ike that people in third world countries didn’t have a home to BEGIN with should be filed under the heading “not helpful.”

Meanwhile, some well-meaning character always begins immediately spouting platitudes like some Cliff Notes version of the greeting card aisle. This is a surefire why to make the already aggrieved want to do serious body harm. Trying to make someone in the throes of self-pity see the light is a fool’s errand for certain. Sure it might be “darkest before the dawn” but until dawn comes we’d like to whine and carry on, do you MIND?”  

Peppy. Pep talks are fine in their proper place in time. But the first moments of a loss – be it a job, romance, friendship or the like is not the time to deliver a firm “buck up” talk. Oh no. That is the time to deliver commiseration, ice cream and/or gin depending on the age, fitness, and general preference of the recipient. There will time later for all the “up by your bootstraps” counsel.  In the first flush of new disappointment and heartbreak people really just want you to listen – and if at all possible tell them they are pretty much right. These crucial first moments (hours?) are not the time for magnanimous platitudes and “it could be worse” scenarios. 

This is a good time for friends to rush in with solace and tacit agreement to the absolute fault of pretty much whoever or whatever has wronged you. Yes, he was a romance-challenged loser. Definitely. Obviously, the boss is mediocre at best and an unprintable adjective at worst. And it goes without saying that you certainly DO agree that the coach doesn’t have the sense God gave a goose when it comes to picking players. Is he blind?  

I have found that treating emotional upset like a stomach-flu works pretty well. With a virus, even as you are lying prone on the bathroom floor staring up at the commode virtually convinced with every fiber of your being that you will, in fact, die, you know somehow in the back of your mind that you probably won’t. Granted you’ll WANT to, but in the next twelve to twenty-four hours (Lord willing) you will probably feel better. You cling to that reality in the most up heaving moments of a physical ailment, so too should you cling to this in the midst of emotional upset. 

Real. Granted, I’m not talking real grief here such as that following the death of a loved one or the loss of a marriage. No, I’m talking the daily ups and downs that try our souls. The offer – be it career, marital, or otherwise – that didn’t come. The team you didn’t make, or the friend who turned out not to be. Wallowing is for the numerous times when your hurt and disappointment is palpable.  

I have found that for all practical purposes it takes about twenty-four hours before you can gain some modicum of “look back and laugh” status on such things as well. Then, assuming it’s all over but the pangs of disappointment, embarrassment, and longing for a second chance, that much ballyhooed dawn does come and you get over whatever “it” was – and yourself.  

Then you are ready to believe that when God closes a door He does open a window. That your life will go on, probably better and brighter and infinitely more interesting than before. 

That all the pep talks and platitudes are true. He really does have a plan. More importantly, that it is probably the best one for you.  

So you go ahead and throw that pity party for yourself.

I fully contend that His plan includes wallowing.  And a fair amount of chocolate.

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About a year ago, a friend of mine encouraged me to sign up on Facebook.

“I reunited with so many old high school friends,” she said.  “It is so much fun seeing all these people after all this time,” she said.  “It is such a blast!” she said.

I ignored her.  Because, you see, I understood there must’ve been some reason all those people from way back then weren’t still in my life now.  I must’ve cut the line for some reason. 

Then my mom died.  My mom was the school librarian where I went to elementary school for a while.  I knew there were people in my past who knew and liked my mother in that capacity, so I wondered if Facebook might get me in touch with some of those people, just to pass on the news that she had died.  So, I joined.

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What a crazy few weeks it’s been.

The news is so depressing — we have financial advisors warning of the next coming of the Great Depression. Everything seems to be going to hell in a handbasket. Financial institutions that have been around since the civil war are going belly up, fall-out from sub-prime loans based on a housing boom built upon ninja loans.

It’s the talk of the office. Everything is doom and gloom and wondering what is going to happen to their house, their lifestyle, their families. It’s enough to make you wanna pull the covers over your eyes and say, “Wake me when it’s all over.”

The cost of living is supposed to sky-rocket while our assets will continue to plumet. They call it a combination that we’ve never seen before — inflation, deflation and stag-flation all at once.

Are the bail-outs the answer?

During this tough economic time, neither presidential candidate is telling us the truth. Entitlement programs continue to put our national deficit into crisis mode and bankrupcy while one candidate is talking about adding more entitlement programs, the other is resting on the ones we have, but isn’t willing to reform them in the way we need to. This isn’t a partisan issue, it’s about telling the American public the truth. Can’t we all make the sacrifices, if our leaders and future leaders actually told us the truth?

I heard the other night on CNN, with social security and Medicare/Medicaid going completely broke before the baby boomers even start to really collect on it, we would have to tax everyone 90% in order to pay for it. So why aren’t our leaders telling us this? Right now, Medicare is being fully funded by China. If they were to collect on their debt, what would happen?

How do you feel about the future? Is anybody as nervous as I am about your future and the future of your children?

One piece of solace I keep in mind, in the late 70’s when we weren’t able to buy meat except for very rare and special occassions (it was just too expensive) and we waited in long lines for gas, my mother reminds me that the world was gloating that America was over, that we would never come back…and we did. Yes, we did.

Is this American, damnit! Or is this America, sigh, damn-it-all?

I don’t know what the answer is. We all know the market needs to correct itself and that loans to people that can’t afford them is a recipe for disaster. But, what about reforming Medicare and Social Security? It’s only because politicians don’t want to lose the old folk vote that they refuse to step up and do what is needed. I find that repulsive, don’t you? Power is more important than making sure our children don’t inherit a life under the rule of China or working until they’re dead, but having nothing to show for it? How is that fair?

I would be willing to work until I’m 80 in order to give my kids a better life and when it comes down to it, we might all have to. Would you do it, or would you rather have 70% taxes and simply change all of our lifestyles so that none of us has the ability to get new cell phones or appliances. We simply make due with what we have. To live on 30% of what we make, we would have to triple our salaries in order to maintain our lifestyles. Is that the answer? I just don’t know…

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For my birthday this year, my mom bought me the boxed set of the entire season of My So-Called Life. For those who don’t know what it is let me explain:

Best. Show. Ever.

Got it?

If that isn’t enough description. Run to Wikipedia and read the description. I’ll wait.

When I was in high school, MSCL was, at times, the only beacon of hope in my otherwise tortured high school existence. OK, maybe that was a wee bit dramatic. But seriously, it was the first show I’d ever watched that “got it.”

90210 it wasn’t. The characters didn’t all drive BMWs their parents bought, or rally around Donna Martin graduating. They dealt with falling in love, betrayal, friendship, lost loves, unrequited crushes, annoying parents, supportive parents, etc.

I still remember watching the pilot of that show. In it, the main character, Angela says something about how parents always ask you how your day at school went. But school is like a drive-by shooting; you’re just happy you survived. When I heard that line, I fell in love. Hard.

So, I sat down and watched all of the episodes again. And completely reconnected and understood and felt like I was fifteen again. The second I heard that opening music, I became all giddy and clapped. My husband didn’t quite know what to make of it.

I guess the good news in all of this is if I have a daughter someday and she tells me how I can’t possibly understand her life, I’ll pass along the DVDs and say: “Checkmate. Yes I do. But you still can’t miss curfew.”

Oh and I also discovered I’m still in love with Jordan Catalano. So hot. But so weird-looking now.

Anyone?

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I’ve been scarce lately, I know.  Nothing personal, anonymous internet readers who rarely leave a comment, things have just been really weird.

First off, my nine-year-old daughter participated in a competition that was very different from anything we’ve done before, or anything we ever envisioned ourselves or our kids doing.  It was a very time-consuming (and kind of expensive) endeavor, and I pounded out every detail of the experience on my personal blog.  Then she won, and we were kindly reminded that we signed a contract agreeing to not give public commentary or interview about the program without approval from a particular committee.  I guess blogging is considered “public.”  Who knew?  So, I had to go back and remove a bunch of words and pictures and skulk off and be ashamed of myself. 

It’s unfortunate because there are a lot of good blog-worthy stories and observations there.  I’m journaling about it, since this experience is too fascinating to not put on paper.  But, nobody can look at it… yet.  It’s going to be a very interesting year, I can tell you that.  Tiaras, sashes, floats, fake hair, gowns, gloves and a sea of rhinestone.  It’s a whole different world. 

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Hey all, normally I don’t post here about all the giveaways and what not that we run on the main site (and if you don’t know what I mean by “main site” you’re missing out on a hell of a lot) but since I know we have a lot of readers who are Harry Potter geeks fans I had to share this one. Scholastic has given us 5 copies of the new Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone 10th Anniversary Edition to give away. This hardcover edition features bonus material and new cover art, and they are also throwing in a collectible pin.

Here’s the real kicker — one of the 5 winners will also receive a neat hardcover boxed set containing all 7 HP volumes. We’ve made it easy to enter — just provide your name and email address and we’ll pick the winners at random after the sweepstakes ends on October 13th. (You can enter once a day until then.) Good luck, Muggles!

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This weekend I packed up the kid, my vintage-inspired white on black dress, faux pearls, and a wallet of singles to give to bartenders and I headed off to Staten [Saten?] Island for a wedding. I’d like to note that nothing in this world excites me more than free booze, free food, dancing, and passing out in a hotel bed with my husband.

Everything started off great. I pre-gamed at a friends house with uh, iced coffee and a Marlboro 27 while my husband went off to do his groomsmen duties. I showered, shaved, plucked, and squeezed into spanx, and my form fitting dress. I mentally prepped myself for an evening of finger foods, and Jameson shots but my heart wasn’t in it. While I was getting ready in my hotel room all I could think was “how awesome would it be if I could just put on my jammies, order up some Indian food, and read in this king size bed?”

My party face wasn’t very convincing. My husband was tired, the food was medicore, and all I could think about was the three novels I had waiting in my air conditioned room waiting for me. I didn’t want to dance, and I didn’t want to drink because I didn’t want to be hungover the next morning. If I was hungover I might miss the FREE breakfast they offered! And since I’m baby-free, I want to take advantage and take a nice long shower, and sneaking donuts up to our room to eat in bed.

When did I get so old? When did 25 become 52? When did the thought of drinking beers until the sun came up sound so positvely DIRTY?  When does the thought of sleep sound more enticing then dancing the night away?

Motherhood changed me and It’s not a bad thing.

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 As the work-at-home mom type person, I have become quite the hostess. Granted, not for cocktail parties, holiday dinners, or any gathering involving guests over the age of ten. No, my area of expertise is play dates.

 Play dates and sleepovers at our house tend to follow the same loose pattern. I pick up as many children after school as our mini-van can hold. Note to designers: there is nothing “mini” about a vehicle that easily seats seven easily. A real “mini” treat for mom would be something in the two-seater, possibly convertible category. THAT is a car a mom could have some fun in. But I digress. 

Starved. We then proceed to our home where the van will disgorge a clamoring herd of starving children onto the lawn. They will proceed in an orderly fashion into the house – just kidding. That was a good one. They will proceed into the house like a chaotic gaggle of puppies gamboling and tripping over each other, finally coming to rest en masse in front of our refrigerator.  

Being the savvy and oh-so-together type mom that I am, I have of course stocked our refrigerator in anticipation of this play date. There the children will find a plethora of healthy fruits and vegetables, perhaps some yogurt, to choose from. 

Ha. Another funny. But that WOULD be a good idea wouldn’t it?

Less. No, I’d rather take the road less traveled. That’s the road where the children try desperately to cobble together some nourishment from a half-sleeve of saltines and the quarter cup of sugar frosted something or other left in the bottom of the cereal box.  

With this they also get water. Hey, I’m not cruel. 

I then tell the children to go somewhere, anywhere, but in my kitchen. They can go to the bedrooms, playroom, or even outside. We have a lovely creek just perfect for falling in, tall trees to become stuck in, sharp sticks to run with, and a trampoline for all those craving some ER adventure.  

As you can imagine, our house is QUITE in demand socially. 

Now, there is always that one Mom who is the play date Master. When you pick up your kid at her house she tells you;

“Oh, they had a great time. First we drafted a proposal for the UN peace accord, then just a few arts and crafts where the girls made a water treatment test plant out of recycled foam cups, and then – this is so cute – the girls put together a little musical sketch while I whipped together some homemade costumes to help them along.”

After I host a play date, I inform the play date guest parents thus;

“Oh, the kids had a great time. At least it sounded like they did. I was in my office with the door closed trying to write more articles about what a stellar parent I am and listening to Van Morrison. From what I could hear they did a lot of jumping around outside for a while which ended, as I predicted, with someone crying. So then they watched TV in the playroom. I think they put in a DVD which may have been educational but could have been an old Jane Fonda workout video for all I know. Then, when that was over, they went outside to run in circles and chase each other with sticks again. Oh, and they ate saltine crackers and doughnuts.”

You would think I would be hopelessly unpopular as a social pariah play date mom but curiously; I’m quite in demand.

Space. I think it’s because rather than hover over the children micro-managing their every move and trying to force feed them carrot sticks, I give them what children of a certain age really crave: space. 

Well space, and jumping with sharp pointy sticks.

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Apparently, my children are attending spy school. That is the only explanation for why I, the consummate prying parent, am so completely in the dark about what it is they DO all day.

Case in point: I’m told that our elementary school had a mock lock-down drill for a gun in the school recently. I learned of this from a fellow parent over two weeks after the fact. It was the classic “so what did you think of that mock drill?” moment.  To which I, the mother who prides herself on having her finger firmly on the pulse of all things that concern her children, could only reply: “huh?” 

Chatterbox. Thus, I ask my darling second-grader, she of the chatterbox ways each day when I pick them up from school: “honey, did you have a special sort of thing at school? It might have involved, say, cowering?” She pondered for a moment and then said, brightly, “Oh yeah! We had a code red - and we got to turn off ALL THE LIGHTS and LOCK THE DOOR and we had to go to our special place and stay down. If we had to stay a long time we got to eat candy bars but we didn’t so we didn’t get any candy bars.”

This prompted me to say - exasperated - “honey, you know when mommy is driving you home and says “did anything happen today” and you say “no” (or tell me all about how Lissa brought a My Pretty Pony for show n’ tell) well THAT is the time I should have heard this story!”

Mind you, if a classmate loses a tooth she is ALL OVER that report. Yet huddling in the dark for a “Code Red” garners nary a mention? My son, for the record, completely failed to mention this occurrence as well.

Apparently, it has no more impact on my children than all the times I spent practicing covering my head with my hands in the hallways of various school buildings in case of tornado. I don’t know whether to be glad it’s not traumatic - or sad that it’s not traumatic.

Generation Gaps As youngsters in the 1960’s, my parent’s were subject to Bay of Pigs era bomb drills. It seems almost quaint now, the notion that “duck and cover” would protect them from an atomic bomb’s certain annihilation.

I was born years after the Bay of Pigs invasion, and I have never participated in a bomb drill. If only because by the time I was in school, we were deeply involved in playing chicken with the USSR and had moved on to nuclear bombs.  “The Day After” was an Afterschool Special detailing how much you really did NOT want to surive a nuclear attack. At that point, even the most optimistic educators were admitting outright that a standard issue school desk probably wasn’t going to provide much cover and that ducking was likely to be a complete waste of our last nanoseconds on earth.

Such was the bliss of our formative years.

Now, post-Columbine, our children have assault drills and are taught to huddle behind locked classroom doors. Many schools have security systems, buzzers, and metal detectors. Visitors now sign in and out with an efficiency, and background check, worthy of the FAA.  It certainly makes those cute little signs taped to my elementary school’s doors two decades ago: “please check in at the office. Thank you!” seem both hopelessly naïve and endlessly nostalgic.

Forget “how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?” Today, talented and dedicated teachers who chose the profession only because they wanted to teach, are forced to calculate how many children can dive for cover behind an overturned snack table.

This is sad.

This is wrong.

This is life.

Protect. As a parent I want to protect my children from every single thing that could possibly cause them sorrow or worry, even as I know that it is impossible to protect your children from the sorrows and worries that are rightfully theirs.

Reflecting on it I think that perhaps the best thing I could hope for is that my own children are both well prepared and somewhat resigned.

The truth is that when your child has spent the morning being drilled in what one should do if a mad gunman turns up in the second grade, perhaps the best response a parent could hope for in answer to “what did you do today honey?” is a relentlessly cheerful “nothing!”

In fervent hopes that “nothing” will be all it ever is.

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I was doing a “girls night out” with one of my momma friends and she mentioned a corset shop in town that she had heard of, and so I suggested we hit it up. The night was young, and we were feeling wild. The Daine Corset shop is absoutely adorable and features one of those rose pink wooden signs that has a corset on it, and is quaint on the inside and filled with lovely, delicate things that I couldn’t imagine stretching over my um, large tits and tummy. We spent sometime  fingering $35 thongs when we the young girl came and asked if I wanted help, and without even thinking I blurted out I needed something to make my tummy disappear. A corset? Some string? I was open to anything.

Next thing I know I’m in a tiny changing room, being yelled at. Apparently the polka dot bra I got on the $5 rack at Lane Byrant wasn’t doing a damn thing for my figure. Next thing I know I’m handed a pair of spanx, and a sexy lace black bra and told to “get dressed and come out…” Um. Okay? The spanx made me look like Mrs Doubtfire in a fat suit, and the bra seemed exactly like my $5 one with a couple extra digits. After putting my sweat stained silk hippie girl dress back on, I came out and showed off my new expensive figure. Everyone came over and oohed and ahhed and than I was told to change into a white tee shirt so I could “See the difference…” I will admit I was less LUMPY but really for over a hundred bucks I was expecting something BIGGER [or less bigger, har har] I wanted to escape back to my little dressing room but the girl told me she needed to see me in my bra to make sure everything fit right.

I mean, they do the whole nine there. Custom fittings for free, and that is how I found myself standing inches away from someone no doubt taking in my fat suit aka spanx, my unshaved armpits, and my red sweaty face from struggling to get in and out of my dress [later I realized there's a zip on the side...] I kept making jokes about motherhood, brownie consumption, and generally being a chubby woman but I was pretty embarassed and just wanted to get the fuck out.

In the process of getting fitted I broke a button on my $88 “bohemian” dress, and had to borrow safety pins so my tits didn’t pop out during dinner [even if they did look good in the black lace bra] and I spent over a hundred bucks on a fat suit.

Sometimes I can’t stop thinking… “this is my life”

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I have never been terribly good at punctuality. I’m generally late for just about everything.  Granted, I was born early but that may, in fact, be the very last time I was even remotely on time. Thus it is perfectly fitting that I am only now writing the column - months after the fact - marking the occasion of the 20^th anniversary of my entrance into adulthood. 

 In truth, I think I may be having a mid-life crisis – sans the sports car and the comb-over. I have spent much time lately dwelling on the past. Where did twenty years go? How is it that I’ve been a “grown up” longer than I was a child? When did the soundtrack of my life end up on the classic oldies station?  

What would I do over?  

Everything?  

Nothing?  

Some things.  

Tell. The funny thing is that as corny country song as it is, what I wish more than anything is that I could go back for just one day, face my 18 year old self, and tell her all the things I wish I had known back then.  

Such as, 

That the harder you work the luckier you are. For pretty much everything you do in life, you get out exactly what you put in.  

That life isn’t fair. It really isn’t. Not “he got a bigger cookie ” unfair, but rather “people can die in the blink of an eye” unfair.  Prepare for that.

That no matter how kind and polite and thoughtful you try to be, there may just be someone who doesn’t like you or what you stand for, so stop trying to please everyone. If you plan to become a writer - this will be doubly true. 

That a size nine isn’t “fat.” 

That you will never, ever need advanced algebra. 

That you will need sunscreen.

That you really should “save for a rainy day.” Yes, I know the Firebird and the Guess jeans are a lot more enticing, but they are absolutely useless when it finally “rains.” And trust me, it will rain. So save a little money from every paycheck, even if it’s only ten dollars. 
That under no circumstances should you accept all those credit card offers you are going to get within minutes of turning eighteen. Really. Trust me on this.  

That you will never, ever, look good in either short hair or a spiral perm. I really can’t stress this enough.

That if you act stupid to attract boys, you will attract stupid boys. I spent a lot of time in high school “dumbing down” because I thought that’s what guys liked. It turns out only dumb guys like that. You are not going to marry a dumb guy. I promise. 

If you do, however, date a dumb boy you will not “change” him. Your love will not “save” him and no, he won’t be nicer/different/better when you are married (and/or pregnant).  

That you should cherish your hometown. You will not live there “your whole life” (or much longer) and you will miss it dearly later on. 

That God is real and you should listen to him. Always.

That you should realize how smart the adults in your life really are. Hush up. Take notes if necessary. You will wish you had listened more. I know this will come as a shock but having a complete set of Led Zeppelin cassettes and a car payment does not make you wise. Yo