Aselin

As I've shared before, I have a really hard time turning down food. You can trust me in most other areas, but if you have a plate of cookies lying around, a crudite platter nearby or an unattended cheeseburger - well, you've been warned.

Last week, as I was finishing up my teaching duties at the local elementary school, I'm winding my way out of the building through the office. I have my own classroom, so to return the key I must go into a makeshift copy room where the key vault is situated. This copy room has all the modern necessities, copy machine, coffee maker, microwave, tanning bed. OK, not a tanning bed, but there are a lot of appliances that have nothing to do with copying packed into this little room.

There's no one in the office so I let myself in, hang up my key, and as I'm turning to leave something catches my eye... LEMON BARS!!! I poke my head out into the office and there's still no one there. My heart begins to beat a little faster as I behold their lemony goodness. Anyone with good taste knows that lemon is the best flavor of a dessert, and The Bar holds a particular place on my dessert pedestal.

A flood of thoughts go into my mind. There is already one bar gone, so another wouldn't be missed. These are set out in the public domain, and have no requisite "Hands Off" sign to keep miscreants away. I have spent a number of hours doing good and probably in all my goodness, actually deserve a lemon bar.

The first time I checked the office I was looking for someone who might give me permission to sample a bar. The second time I checked I was making sure the coast was clear. Swiping a bar I turn to make my escape when the door swings open perfectly timed with the insertion of the bar into my salivating mouth. Panicked, I stuff the whole thing in take a quick chew and smile at the attendance officer who I don't know by name, as I make my way into the parking lot.

OH MY HECK!!! This thing is not a lemon bar. In fact, I don't think it was food at all. Stuffed to the molars with some bizarre unidentifiable slime I look for somewhere to spit it out when the smiling principal rounds the corner. Wide eyed, I wave and pretend I'm in a rush to get somewhere. Actually I was trying not to vomit at the front door of the school. People frown on that sort of behavior.

The glob in my mouth has the consistency of tapioca pudding mixed with raw egg. It has kernels of corn in it. Maybe green chilies - but that could have been a backwash of bile induced by the noxious slop I was trying to hold without being caught by the herd of PTA ladies headed my way. They're waving at me, calling to me, I'm dry heaving and waving back.

Classy.

I jump in my car and scramble around with no success for a napkin to deposit the putrid wad. I decide I'll pull a block away from the school and spit the glop out the window. Waving to the PTA I peel out, kernels of corn and raw egg slime start seeping out of the corner of my mouth.

I'm not sure there is an "appropriate" place to spit, but I find an area less likely to be encountered by a jogger and move to discharge what has now broken down into a sort of mushy blob. I realize I don't have the skill or power to launch sufficient distance, I have no napkin, so I spit the ooze into my palm, intending to throw the thing away from my moving vehicle. Just as my arm swings wide, the orb looses form and breaks up into slimy chunks. Some of which do not make it out of my freshly washed van.

Using my finger I try and pick sticky chunks of corn from the open window bay. I'm pretty sure I got most of them, and use my sleeve to finish polishing off the evidence of my crime.

What had promised to be a beautiful, lemony moment had turned into some sort of Candid Camera skit. I'm sure I'm caught on surveillance and the staff is laughing hysterically at the trap they set for me. Fortunately, my offense is limited to a sphere where the rest of my family will not find out.

Driving my daughter home from school later that day, I roll up my window. A long, smelly, corny ooze smears a long stripe up the glass.

My consequences have been long, and painful.

Life at my house is nothing but excitement and blue-ribbon parenting.

As I have discussed earlier. Hubby (Grrr) encouraged and enabled our children to purchase a bearded dragon. He tries to deny it now that the thing has blown up in our faces a couple of times, but since our children cannot yet drive, and most of their purchases were made at Petsmart, without a consenting driver they could not have accomplished their evil plan.

So "Jimmy" is here. Before he arrived I was all, "I'm not doing ANYTHING with this @#$# new pet." Now I find myself watering the dumb thing, feeding the dumb thing and buying crickets for the dumb thing. Aaaah motherhood.

Buying crickets for Jimmy is quite the ordeal. Fortunately, the cheapest purveyor of crickets is close to our house. I have formed a friendship with the owner of the store, so when I come in, she invites me in to the back room to chat while she counts out twenty dozen crickets at ten cents a piece.

The back room of a pet store would make Alice Cooper scream. The first time I entered the room the stench was unbelievable. There was a rooster, two dogs, tanks of worms and all sorts of ick. There are rows and rows of cages where all kinds of rodents breed willy-nilly. I think rodents can be cute until I realized that these rodents were not intended to BE pets they are intended to FEED pets. This explains the many happy snakes in the shop.

Of course there are also three large metal trash cans that hold the three sizes of crickets for sale. Small - like a tic-tac, medium - like an almond and large - like a prune. The trash cans are too tall for the crickets to escape - theoretically, but I still get the heebie jeebies trying to have a casual conversation back in the lair.

Each week I walk out of the store having paid for a bagful of vermin I pay my exterminator to keep out of my house. It goes against every fiber of my being. (Grrr)

After a number of weeks the proprietor mentions that I can order crickets by the thousand. They come delivered and cost about what I was paying for a few hundred. Sounds great!

I'm driving home with the box of 1,000 crickets in my passenger seat. Stopped at a light I get the creepies when I realize the strange sound is a thousand crickets crawling all over each other writhing in the box of cricket creepiness. It was an eerie sound Hitchcock must have used because I haven't felt that creeped out since color movies were released.

Now that the crickets are home I realize they must be transferred to the "cricket keeper" so they can be fed and kept alive. How does one transfer a thousand crickets from box to container? All I know is that 1. This is definitely NOT my job and 2. This will only be done in the closed shower of the guest bath.

Child #1 was in charge of the endeavor. After closing her in, like an episode of Fear Factor, she attempts to open the box. Next thing I know all heck broke loose. There was screaming and dancing and pounding on the walls, glass and ceiling. Hubby was shouting, children were shrieking - yelling, "they're in my pants! they're in my pa-ants!" Hubby is yelling that the door of the shower is going to be broken if everyone doesn't calm down.

"Take off your pants!" I yell from the other room, 'cause you'll remember, I don't do anything with this bearded dragon.
"I don't have any underwear on!" comes the hysterical reply.
I'm giggling, but the struggle going on in the other room is getting pretty serious.

Finally extracating her from the enclosure hysteria is still in full swing. Screaming, kicking, hitting the wall - it was a full on panic attack. Hubby is calmly restraining the Tasmanian Devil when I come in to see what the heck is going on. Kid #2 is still in the shower trying to catch loose crickets in their hands while Kid #1 has lost all sense of control. I reach for them when I get whacked in the face and kicked in the shin.

Now, what happens next will be left to your imagination. I will give you some suggestive tidbits to spur you along. What would the "Mother of the Year" do with her writhing panic-stricken child? Well, I didn't do that. You know in old movies what they do with a hysterical woman? Even women who think they have crickets in their pants? Yeah, well I may or may not have done that.

Needless to say, calm was restored rather quickly after my gentle nature prevailed. Dad and kid #2 caught the rest of the crickets and got them into the enclosure. None of the crickets escaped the bathroom, so it is safe for you to come visit.

I can't wait until our second shipment arrives.

Everyone needs to have a life-guiding plan. My son has a sign in his room that says "Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons for you are crunchy and taste good with catsup." I wholeheartedly endorse this philosophy.

This week my hubby, (grrr) approved the idea that our children pool their money to buy a bearded dragon. Normally I don't like bearded anythings. I mean, they're all hairy, and shaggy, and gnarly and ick. Then spending money on a reptilian bearded... ick.

Now don't get me wrong. I love it when the herpetology society brings their boas, gecko's and kimodo dragons to chase the kids around the school yard. Nothing like screaming toddlers as the forked tongues of doom flicker near their little faces. Come on, other people's kids freaking out? I relish the rare occasion that makes mine look like angels. Yay reptiles.

But to bring one home. Set up rocks and heat lamps for the cold-blooded little monsters. Then the fun begins. Feeding. No reptile eats anything a normal person wants to touch. Knowing nothing about dragons, except of course the prerequisite fairy tale dragon primers and a long ago reading of The Hobbit, I was not prepared to undertake this undertaking. (Grrr at hubby again.)

The family comes home from Petsmart with $40,000 worth of dragon supplies. It's the keystone cops of dragon raising. I ask them if we need tools to groom the dragon or if it can share the electric razor with hubby. They, as usual don't think I'm very funny, but I send myself into giggles picturing a little dragon perched on the sink being shaved by my beloved. I think that would only be fair, having to shave an animal because you agreed to allow its purchase. I hope they bite.

Soon the tank is set up, lamps a burning, rocks and fake plants and a hollowed out log... the habitat is prepared. We now await the maturation of the little guy. Every day seems an eternity to the children. Every day that passes dragonless is one more jolt of joy for me.

Finally the day arrives, and "Jimmy" joins the family. Jimmy gets a lot of attention. He needs two daily hydrating spa baths, diced fruit and veggies and of course my favorite - mineral dusted crickets. The deal was this was YOUR pet. I am responsible for keeping four humans, one canine and an orange grove alive. I'm not looking to add to the menagerie.

This morning, amid the wailing and sobbing of an unnamed child, I get coerced into driving to a specialty pet store to purchase specialty crickets. Stepping over the chinchilla and around the rooster I retrieve the 10 dozen crickets for my newly purchased "cricket keeper" I wander over to the store's bearded dragons - I must admit - they are cute. They all look at me, follow what I'm doing - heck, they're more attentive to me than the entire rest of my family combined. I may have to change my dragon soapbox.

Returning home I'm sitting on unnamed child #1's unmade bed trying to figure out how I am going to get 12 - 24 crickets from the keeper to the cage - oh did I forget to mention, they each had to be dusted with mineral powder. Yum.

I open the cage, they're all relatively calm. In what I think is an ingenious move I take a toilet paper tube and coax a couple of crickets into the tube. Then I can empty the tube into the container with mineral powder, shake them around and release them to Jimmy.

Jimmy is extremely interested in what I am doing and has gotten down from his basking rock to stand by woman with crickets. As I'm watching Jimmy try and look cute, I bend to release the two snow white crickets into the cage. One hop and snap, Jimmy got 'em. Jimmy is an outstanding hunter. As I was applauding his little snack I noticed one of the crickets had climbed up high in the keeper. I go to secure the lid and the cricket jumps out. Hmmmm. Conundrum.....

Good mom... would work really hard to find the escaped cricket, return it to the cage and make her daughter's messy bed. Yeah... I know people like that. I know, you know this is not what I did. I spotted the cricket and tried to catch it with my hand. With my clumsy gargantuan efforts I succeeded only in ripping off one of his legs, which I then promptly lost in her bed. I looked and looked and then, true to the kind of mom I really am, just left the limb in there. I will love it when she gets up in the morning after a deep sleep with a cricket leg embedded in her cheek. Puleeeeaze let that happen!

I attempt another dip into the cricket cage. Lifting the tube full of crickets I release the end a little too early and 90% of the crickets made it into the tank. To Jimmy's dismay, three others got out and were living carefree lives of joy behind the bed. Again, conundrum... do I tell the kid there's a plague of pestilence that's taken over her room thanks to mom, or do I say nothing...
For the record I do believe it will be hard to sleep with crickets in your bed. Running over your legs under the covers...getting caught in your hair.
Votes? Anyone?

Somehow I've actually paid to be able to communicate less with my children. These new orthodontic appliances have made it extremely hard to understand anything they say. Quite frankly, I'm sure their teachers aren't calling on them in school.

Sitting around the dinner table hubby and I are conducting the nightly ritual of finding out the happenings of their day. It's going something like this:

"So, Unnamed child #1, what did you do today?"

"I had a fantastic day expanding my growing mind with the wonders of learning and possibility."

"Great. Unnamed child #2, how did your day go?"

"Wrble Grumph farqua harku zeelef!"

"Um, great." Figuring that requesting a repetition was pointless we move on.

"Unnamed child #3, how was your day?'

Fortunately this child's palate has expanded rapidly, and therefore the diction is not as garbled. Not clear mind you, but less garbled than #2.

"Today in science (pronounced thienthe) we pwayed where's my penuth"

I choke on my water. Hubby's eyes bug out and the other unnamed children completely lose composure. (BTW, I'm not explaining this to you if you didn't figure it out. Read it out loud if you're confused).

What are they teaching you at that school? We all realize that what is being explained is not what it sounds like, but Unnamed Child #3 keeps talking despite our gffaws. Apparently the class conducted a science experiment that gathered data on some shell-on roasted peanuts. What was being reported was an escalating series of:

"Then I weighed my penuth." "Then I measured my penuth." and finally "We all put our penuths in a basket."

We had completely lost our composure. Doubled over, the four non-scientists were chortling and snorting like the herd of juveniles we are. What made it more entertaining was Unnamed Child #3's complete oblivion to what was going on.

"What is so funny about my penuth?"

Wiping the tears from my eyes I'm completely unable to explain. There is really nothing funny about a penuth.

I had a mammogram yesterday, which is kind of a joke in itself since I don’t have much mammo to gram. But nevertheless, I’m of the prudent age when us women are expected to suffer such injustices.

Checking in at the women’s center I’m surprised at the number of men in the waiting room. Hopefully they are just supportive spouses since I don’t want to be sitting gown-clad among any of them.

I’m not a very good waiter. I have a hard time sitting still when I know what’s coming. Glancing nervously around the room I note the cheap vase collection, blaring TV on a channel no one in the room would have selected and a water cooler. Loving free stuff I avail myself of some water.

The wait goes on, and I avail myself of some more water. I live in the desert. I am parched.

I followed all the pre-mammo rules: two piece outfit - check. No lotions - check. No deodorant - check. If nothing else I’m an obedient little impatient. My name is called so I gather my belongings and obediently follow an overly peppy attendant to a waiting area. She explains the drill. 1. Disrobe from the waist up. 2. Put on the uncomfortable, ill-fitting gown. 3. Gather all my belongings and exit the dressing room. 4. Find an available locker, lock my stuff. 5. Wait.

I quickly get to step 4. As I fumble with the locker you’d think I’d never encountered a low tech lock before. Trying repeatedly to get the thing to latch I’m getting frustrated. Over my shoulder a pre-pubescent voice rings out “Ya want me to help you with that lady?”

Great. There’s a ten year old in the room. I’m used to being bested at technology by my children but good grief, this is a LOCKER. She’s there cross-legged on the floor waiting for her mother. She’s too young to even have a bra. OK, well a bra is just a fashion accessory for me too, but I have a driver’s license so I should wear one.

“No thank you.” I reply as the latch finally secures.

Turning around I survey my options. On a good day I have a large personal space boundary. Now I’m gown clad in a room full of strangers waiting for my boobs to be put in a cold waffle iron. I don’t want to sit by anyone. Unfortunately, this luxury escapes me as I tuck myself in between two more fortunate souls who got to pick their chairs.

All around I’m just mad at the injustice of having to be there. And, my ill-thought-out plan of guzzling free water is starting to expose it’s flaws.

In enters an attendant that calls Ash-e-lyzz forward. I know this is me. The mispronunciation of an "A" name is always me. I jump up and she says “Let’s go in here for some privacy.” She motions to the dressing room with the curtain separating us from the rest of them. “Good idea” I sarcastically think.

She then informs me that they don’t have my old films so I will have to reschedule for another day.

WHAT??? I take a deep breath and calmly suggest we could administer the test and then compare them to the old films on another day.

This of course makes sense, which is why it wasn’t going to work. I was informed that my insurance wouldn’t pay for such madness and that I would have to come back another day.

I’m not sure if it was the slipping gown, or the urgent bladder, but I became a little forceful with the fully clothed lady.

“So, you confirm my appointment, check me in, make me get undressed, lock my underwear in a public locker, sit in a crowded waiting room only to tell me you don’t have my films?”

“Yep” the highly paid rocket scientist says.

“Yeah, we’re going to do the test today. Then, tomorrow when you have my films you can compare the two.”

“Whatever” she shrugs and walks away. Furious, I ruminate on the injustice of having to take this stupid test in the first place.

I’m all flustered, have to pee and am sweating a little due to lack of deodorant or lotions. Taking a deep breath I prepare to return to the sardine room of fellow gowners. Upon entering one woman applauds me. I’m shocked and a little embarrassed. “Sorry, I guess that wasn’t too discreet.” I sheepishly say.

“They treat us like meat” she says. Feeling camaraderie I agree, and we start to chat. Another woman blurts out, “I’m having a needle biopsy.” “Oh” is all I can manage. “I’m a fifteen year survivor” another offers, “they think it’s come back.” The fear and powerlessness in the room is palpable. Suddenly I'm not so mad about my test. Mine's just a check-up.

As we talk, my heart goes out to these sisters. We're all wearing the same uniform, but we're fighting different battles of the same war. I offer some words of encouragement, ask some questions and listen to their stories. I’m not sure how much help I was, but I am confident I was better than the droning television.

Leaving the room, I notice the ten year old, sitting wide-eyed in the corner. I smile, trying ineffectively to comfort her alarm.

Honey, this being a girl thing only gets trickier and trickier.

I recently read an article that made my head spin around. The premise asserted in the research is that fathering daughters makes men move to the left politically.

"In an unpublished article to be submitted to an economics journal, the researchers wrote: ‘This paper provides evidence that daughters make people more Left-wing, while having sons, by contrast, makes them more Right-wing.’
Professor Oswald said: ‘As men acquire female children, those men gradually shift their political stance and become more sympathetic to the “female” desire for a larger amount for the public good."

Is it really as simple as that? People’s political views are shaped by the gender of their children? My dad only had daughters. What still stands out about my childhood is the lack of sympathy shown to my “female” leanings.

For instance, we lived on a large piece of property. One day dad decided that important lessons could be taught from working the land. Lessons about education, career choices and self sufficiency.

As a young teen I was given the task of digging post holes for a fence. Post hole digging by hand is a tricky endeavor requiring stamina, coordination and strength. At the time I had no upper body strength, girly girl hands and a lazy streak. I would work on a post hole for what seemed hours, extracting dirt at the rate of a teaspoonful at a time, and then tearfully check in with my father to report how impossible and unfair this task was. Rather than adjusting the task to my abilities - which is what a left-leaner would advocate, smoke would come out of his ears as he unsympathetically bound my blistered hands and replied “This will make you want to go to college.”

Seventeen hours later, with bloody, splintered hands, dehydrated from my blubbering and having completed one post hole I had to agree with him. In the following days I completed more post holes. I rose to the challenge, (OK, I confess partly because I was going so slow that my dad hired some teenage boys to dig along side of me.) my abilities increased, as did my commitment to higher education.

My daughter-raising father also dragged me along on some of his late-night dental emergencies. Being awakened at three in the morning to make the 30 minute drive to the office only to hold the spit vacuum for some moron who decided that the rotting, pus oozing tooth that had clearly been in that state during normal business hours, needed pre-dawn emergency attention, made me think long and hard about the dental profession.

My dad was a very successful dentist, and like most children, I arrived on the scene after the trappings of success were evident. It would be easy to romanticize the profession, at which he was successful but did not like. On one of these drives I asked why he didn’t just make the guy wait until morning? A father with “female” sensitivities might have said something like he was motivated to ease the suffering of this poor soul. Not my dad. Without missing a beat, in deadpan delivery he said “So you won’t want to become a dentist.”

I know that research studies merely attempt to classify and speak in generalities about their human subjects, but I have to vehemently disagree with these findings. I think men raising daughters today do gain a window into their sensitive sides, but they also become more in touch with how hard it will be for those girls as they grow up to establish stable successful lives. They become acutely aware that these girls need skills of their own. That in the reality of this unfair and unpredictable world they need to be able to take care of themselves, to not be dependent, not to be victims.

When I left home, there was no question I was on my own. While this was a little scary, I also had a firm belief that I would be up to the task. It didn’t enter my mind that my parents would bail me out of bad decisions, protect me from my own stupidity, or financially support me. As I watch our government today enacting more and more left-leaning policies I don’t see the wisdom or the good in many of them.

Oh, and neither does my father.

My first yoga instructor was named Ted. He was a soft spoken man who never, and I do mean never, exited his seated position. Regardless of the poses we were attempting, he remained seated on his mat and explained what he wanted us to do. It was an interesting technique, and without demonstration, I performed most of the poses inaccurately. At the time I thought he was the laziest teacher ever, but child care was included with the class and I had two toddlers so I would have found standing with my forehead against a wall for an hour worth it.

Ted soon moved on to different yoga pastures leaving our little class without a teacher. A few weeks later Phil was hired. Phil was a twenty something guy who owned one set of clothes, smoked like a chimney and refused to comb his long hair. Regardless of how many classes I took - and Phil taught four days a week - Phil had the same outfit on. I suspected he lived in his car.

Phil had a different style than Ted. He was very hands on, in an appropriate way, and after I got over my aversion to his hygiene I found myself learning quite a bit from Phil. I warmed to him the day he showed up with a shaved head. It showed off his earrings.

One day a uniformed woman came in to our class and announced that Phil had moved to Tibet. I suspect Tibet is better than a Datsun hatchback. Abandoned once again our disoriented little group rolled up our mats and went home.

Bev was hired next. Bev was an interesting teacher who chose to berate certain students into higher effort. Because most of Bev’s class was of the over 70 set, I was often the target. Some days it worked. Many days it didn’t.

Ted the Lazy, Phil the Stinky, Bev the Bossy have nothing on my new teacher.

The first day I entered the class a couple of weeks ago, I found a spot at the back, unrolled my mat and began to prepare. Usually it’s hard to find space in the back of a yoga class, so while the front of the room was completely full, I had my pick of the back, for which I was thankful.

Suddenly, in walked my new teacher, Lance. Good grief, no YMCA yoga teacher I had ever seen had looked like Lance. He was straight out of central casting. Bulging muscles rippling out of his muscle shirt and short shorts. I realized why there was room at the back. All but one of the members in the class were women, and they were clustered around Lance the Luscious like some sort of 80’s movie.

Despite the demand by most of the women for his personal attention, Lance was leading a very nice class. He was instructive, fluid and so far by my assessment not just a pretty face. About 3/4 of the way through the class we were all twisting our way into “Eagle Pose” A tricky balance pose where your arms twist around each other, your legs twist around each other and you stand on one foot in a squat with your arms reaching toward the sky. (If you don’t understand what I just said, this will illustrate why Ted the Lazy was such an ineffective teacher.)

So there we were, balancing and squatting with a gong solo being played on the CD player when suddenly, clearly, audibly poor Lance the Luscious became Lance the Loud.

Exploding with human effervescence worthy of a locker room, Lance passed gas like he had fallen on a whoopie cushion. The entire room lost their zen, devolving into a cacophony of giggles as poor, blushing Lance attempted to pretend like nothing had just happened. The unfortunate thing is gas is funny. Always. Yoga folk often refer to it as wind. In my experience, wind is more discreet.

Interestingly enough Lance’s appeal seemed to diminish on the spot. People actually scooted away from him.

It was bound to happen. You pack a hot room with 20 or so tofu eating, spandex wearing humanoids listening to gong music and you're just asking for trouble.

Suddenly my unwanted real estate was prime.

Yesterday in class, people didn’t cluster around Lance like they had. I had to fight for the back. I much preferred him on everyone else’s pedestal.

Leaving class a woman commented to me that poor Lance will never live down his fart. She is probably right.

There but the grace of God go I.

In general I’m not a fan of Mother’s Day. It has always seemed to me to be a contrived holiday that guilts people into unnatural behaviors that they would never come up with on their own.

Surprisingly, this Mother’s Day was spectacular! I awoke to a gaggle of snuggling kids, who not only had showered in the last 24 hours, but also brushed their teeth! I think at that point my joy was full. But there was more in store.

I was then treated to breakfast. Traditionally the “Mother’s Day” breakfast is a conglomeration of random samplings, mostly inedible and cold. Decorated with greenery pulled out of a wilting bouquet purchased somewhere around midnight Saturday night. After being presented with the unappetizing platter, everyone would stand around not only watching but goading me to eat.

“Mom, eat the egg. I made it for you all by myself.”
“Which thing is the egg?”
“The gray thing.”
“Mmmmmm.” As I try to control my gag reflex.

These moments don’t really feel like a celebration of “Mother” rather some sort of Candid Camera/Punked skit. Yet, they play out over and over all across the nation.

So imagine my surprise AND delight when this year I’m presented with not only recognizable food, but delicious food. Eggs Benedict and fruit. Home run for the celebrants.

Then, EVERYONE gets ready for church. By themselves. On time. No screaming, crying, fashion crises, lost shoes, face paint, ripped jeans, mismatched colors. They looked like a snapshot out of a Sears catalog. Including hubby.

We head for church and I’m thinking “This is the best Mother’s Day ever!” While I’m not a fan of the annual “sainted mother” soliloquy that’s usually delivered, I genuinely feel celebrated, appreciated and full.

Walking in to church on Mother’s day patrons were greeting other patrons and exchanging pleasantries of the day. One of the Bishopric walks in with us and makes a comment about the program and my children being mentioned in the program. I, of course am still basking in my Benedict glow and think this is a reference to Unnamed child number three’s birthday this week.

How wrong I was.

Walking into the normally reverent chapel, I’m met with an overzealous welcome as people nod, smile, rise from their seats to shake my hand. Now, in my own mind I am a celebrity, but this usually does not pan out in real life.

We all sit in a comfy pew and I reach for a program to see what the special stylings for the day are. Unnamed child number one snatches the program from my hands before I can read it. I’m horrified. I thought I had broken the grabbing habit out of my children’s repertoire back in the toddler years. Clearly I’m a failure as a mother. Hubby starts to snicker, which only makes me madder. I harshly whisper at her for the program back and the people sitting behind us burst out in irreverent laughter. How rude! Like they have perfect, non-grabbing children. As I turn to see who it is I mentally admit, OK, they do have perfect, non-grabbing children, but still.

Unnamed child number two says in a slightly snickery voice, “Mom, do you want my program?”

I’m torn between my desire to restore order and my desire to regain my stolen program and swat unnamed child number one over the head with it. I notice other people are laughing at us. I look to my left and a family smiles and waves. Look to my right and a woman winks. What the heck? Like this kind of discipline hasn’t played out EVERY Sunday for as long as children have been allowed at church.

I take the program offered by unnamed child number two. It has a lovely pink insert inside. I pull it out and realize it’s a collection of quotes from the younger children in the congregation about their own mothers. Awwww.

I begin to read.

“She tucks me in at night,” “She is nice,” “She makes me cookies,” Awwww.

Then, I choke on my own spit as I read Unnamed child number two’s quote:

“She’s one HOT Mama and she’s nice.”

The wife of the family behind us puts her hand on my shoulder and can’t control her own giggling. My face turns a florescent hot red and I’m a little dizzy. But, after I quit coughing and realize why everyone was so attentive on my arrival, I attempt to laugh it off and move on with the service.

The service was lovely. I had calmed down and returned to normal temperatures. Unnamed child number two is completely proud of himself. So all is well.

Then, before we’re dismissed from the chapel, the Bishop stands up to share a few words. Holding up the insert he decides he wants to give a re-cap - in case anyone missed it. I’m not as dumb as I look. I know where this is going. Suddenly my bag on the floor needs immediate attention as I hear over the speaker system, “She tucks me in at night, she is nice, and then with a snigger not befitting of a man of the cloth he says “And of course, Unnamed child number two “She’s one HOT Mama!”

Is this church or a roast?

I don’t know why I thought it was over. Not only did I spend the rest of the Sunday being referred to as HOT Mama, but this entire week I’ve fielded phone calls for HOT Mama.

Most of me cringes in humiliation. Part of me wants to embrace it, because I am clearly a success as a mother as their indoctrination has been a success. They can cook AND punk me all on the same day.

My maternal grandparents were a huge part of my life as a child. They spent a lot of time with me, after school and on weekends, treating me like I was the most important person in their world.

My grandfather in particular went out of his way to find the time to be with me. He was my personal taxi service for all of my school years. My grandparents were no different than the kabillions of other grandparents throughout history. Their job was to spoil me, break all the parental rules about diet and bedtime, and send me home when they were done.

Picking me up from school and transporting me home should have taken about 10 minutes. One day, we stopped for forbidden ice cream. I was not allowed to have sugar as a child, and while I see the reasoning in my parent’s thinking, at the time I would have preferred they cut off my right arm and let me eat sugar.

Grandfather was sensitive to my young cravings, and stopped at the local ice cream shop for a scoop of strawberry shortcake ice cream on a sugar cone. I couldn’t have loved him more at that moment.

Needing to come up with a reason why it took us over an hour to get home, (I wasn’t going to rush this rare opportunity), Grandfather said with a wink “We stopped by the hardware store.” Being of deviant intelligence, I got his code and relayed the information to my waiting mother.

The hardware store was our little secret. I adored the hardware store. The invention of cookies and cream flavor notched up my esteem for the hardware store significantly. Grandfather even let me order chocolate sprinkles, which is nirvana on a cone for a ten year old. Whenever he picked me up I would plead for a trip to the hardware store, and being a grandparent, it was virtually impossible for him to say no.

Despite the ridiculous frequency of our hardware trips, my mother never did discover the ruse. I let her in on the secret a few years after he passed away.

Sometimes, when I’m particularly introspective, I take myself to the hardware store and order a scoop of cookies and cream with chocolate sprinkles on a sugar cone. Somehow I don’t feel alone; it feels like he is with me in that flavor. This week, I sat with my treat, and missed the unconditional love my grandfather gave me. Everyone should have someone who loves them like he loved me.

Everyone should get to go to the hardware store.

All parents screw their kids up. It’s part of the circle of life. Mine did a number on me, and while I’ve come to embrace the neuroses that make me who I am, I do worry about how badly my own kids have it and if they’ll be able to decide to be happy regardless of their circumstances.

For each of them I keep a labeled jar for their future Therapy Fund. Infractions like repeatedly calling them the wrong name elicit a deposit of a quarter. Answering the phone when their friends call in a heavy foreign accent and insisting my teenager is the president of the Flock of Seagull’s fan club - well that one can bring up to a dollar. To ameliorate any guilt pangs that may arise, I plan on giving them the jar when they’re 18. They can either take a trip around the world or enroll in a few months of paying to someone listen to how bad it was to be raised by me.

As a mother I have worked very hard to prepare them for the real world. For instance, I have taught each of them how to perform the dance move ‘the worm’. They all can play the refrain of “My Sherona” on the touch tone telephone, and they all know how to make a mean egg drop soup. I’ve likely thrown in a few other lessons along the way like learning a work ethic, being honest, serving their fellow man, blah blah blah.

So imagine my delight while sitting around the dinner table enjoying a lovely dinner I had crafted, unnamed child number one insists that they must chew with their mouth open because it’s physically impossible not to. I am pretty sure I haven’t punched this child in the mouth and caused serious swelling recently, so I can’t figure out how it can be physically impossible to close one’s mouth. I take a few deep breaths while watching food bits fly out during the inane explanation.

I’ve read the parenting books. I know how to raise kids. I repeat under my breath choose your battles. Choose your battles. Choose your battles.

Unnamed child number two passes gas so loudly I think we’re being dive bombed by an air tanker. Unnamed child number one starts to gffaw, causing the contents of the uncloseable mouth to projectile around the placemat. I slap the table glaring at both of the savages that have been allowed to grace my presence. I half rise to my feet and they both cower in fear. Order has been restored and pleasant conversation resumes.

Patting myself on the back I mentally point out that I’m a really good parent. Most people today allow manners to devolve with no repercussions whatsoever. My children will not leave my house not knowing better. We’re having a nice, genial conversation about the goings on at school. I’m doing such a good job...

Suddenly, out of nowhere, unnamed child number three has some sort of gag reflex while taking a huge drink of milk. Spewing the milk all over the main dish, the side dishes, each of our eating plates, smattering the entire family and most of our drinking glasses one would have thought it was staged the lactose distribution was so effective.

I wipe milk off my neck and arm and stare toward the end of the table. There are no words as our eyes meet. In a gunfight at the OK corral moment the other two innocents at the table back away in fear as unnamed child number three starts stuttering a feeble explanation.

I quietly clear my plate and walk over to the cabinet where I keep their Therapy Funds. Lifting each of the jars I pour them into my Spa Fund.

Lesson for today, I can be happy regardless of my circumstances.

Years ago when I was first married hubby and I were visiting the in-laws at their home on Loch Ness Drive. Hubby waited a long time to get married, and at our wedding dinner his father stood up and said “We think Aselin’s great and all, but we’re just glad he’s not gay.”

Clearly the bar was set very high for me.

During this visit there was a lot of extended family sharing the finite space. I, being the honored guest, was extended special privileges. As nine of us, and what felt like 900 kids, were readying ourselves for the day, bathroom facilities were scarce so my mother-in-law Ann, offered me her bathroom to shower and dress. This way I would be away from all the other riff raff. I gladly accepted the offer, and gathered my toiletries heading off to my seclusion in the master suite.

I was having a glorious shower, singing show tunes to myself when I hear my father-in-law’s gruff voice from way down the hall.

“Ann!” He boomed.

“She’s not in here!” I yelled back.

Now, my father-in-law has no interest in messing with any type of fandangled hearing enhancement technology. This does not mean he does not need fandangled hearing enhancement. He really, really does. I’ve nominated him as the poster child of needy hearing enhancement. Kind of like those skinny, sullen African kids you see on posters that beg for your help. I’ve spent years begging for someone to help him.

So imagine my dismay when I hear, louder and closer another “AAANNN!”

Of course, I louder, and with great gusto yell “She’s not in heeeeeeerrrrreeee!”

Only to be met with the same “AAAANNNN!”

At this point I’m starting to panic. It’s feeling like a horror movie with the repetitive screeching string music as danger advances closer and closer.

I take a different tactic, “It’s ASELINNNNNN!!!” I scream, straining my vocal cords.

His next bellow is now inside the bathroom, right next to the shower “ANN!”

At this point I’ve come completely unglued. I’ve backed myself into the corner of the shower, trying desperately to shield myself with a shampoo bottle and a washcloth. The panic has tightened my vocal cords and I’m crouched in an awkward naked squat as I squeak out with everything I’ve got “It’s Aselin!”

Suddenly not only does he holler my death blow of “ANN!” but the shower door flies open.

Every humiliated cell in my body wishes I were dead. Attempting to cover all of what used to be my private parts I make the squeamish attempt to look up, hoping that not only is the guy deaf, but that he had also suddenly been struck blind.

I whimper a final “It’s Aselin” as I realize that the jacka** standing before me is not my father in law. Rather it’s his soon to be dead spawn - my husband.

Sadly, sixteen years later I’ve still yet to adequately repay the prank. But I do revel in the fact that he hasn’t slept one good night since then - he’s been looking over his shoulder.

Back in 1986 I had a pretty big year. Among some of the oddities that befell my way, I was runner-up in a beauty pageant. (I can hear you laughing) (Stop it!)

Being runner up is a surreal event. Standing on stage holding hands in a best friend huddle with a girl you met a week ago. All eyes in the room watching, time seems to stop and both of you are holding your breath. Girls have been known to faint prior to the announcement, since for some reason every announcer has acted like Ryan Seacrest on American Idol: seemingly incapable of just netting out the information you need. Rather, the guy with the microphone and the envelope always gets caught up in the power play of suspense.

Then, the moment arrives, the envelope is unsealed, the calculations of Deloitte and Touche are revealed and...and...and...

Someone else’s name is called. Spotlight goes to her. People rush forward with flowers and crowns and there’s singing. I just stood there, out of the spotlight, clapping like I was ecstatically happy happy for her. Then I wandered around the back of the stage, not sure where to go. Soon I found myself back to the green room. Got someone to unzip my gown. Packed up, and went home.

The title of Miss Ventura County came with all sorts of perks: cash prizes, fame, groupies. As her dutiful runner-up I was poised to take over at any moment lest some misfortune befall her.

One of her duties was to preside over various activities at the County Fair. Having raised my share of competition lambs, I was well acquainted with the workings of the fair. Sort of like Templeton the Rat from Charlotte’s Web. For instance, I knew that if one had ‘duties’ at the fair one missed school. Somehow I convinced the pageant committee that the runner-up should accompany the winner on her duties. I can be quite persuasive, but I’m still not sure how I managed this one.

Attending concerts was one of the duties. As Fair Royalty, we were escorted back stage to meet the myriad of dignitaries who graced the stages of the fair and sanction their performances with our blessing. Billy Ocean, the Beach Boys, David Copperfield... just to name a few of the iconic performers who’s autographs I acquired.

1986 heralded the Ventura County Fair arrival of the chart topping group, “Flock of Seagulls”. All decked out in my crown and sash (from my city pageant) pageant officials brought me up to meet the wing-haired group.

Looking down his nose at me one of the Flock said derisively, “Who are you?”

With all my teenager poise I said “Um, uh, um, Aselin Spellman?”

He sneered, “No, who ARE you?”

Again, “Um, uh, um, Runner-up to her.” I motioned to my queen.

A third time, sporting a creepy lip curl, he repeated, “Who ARE you?”

Well at this point I was both confused and mad, so of course I said, in a tiny whisper of a voice, “I don’t know.”

He huffed and stomped off leaving me in a bundle of existential angst.

Later that night, staring at the ceiling in my room I thought about my inability to answer the question. I tried over and over to formulate what I should have said. I have perfected this skill - going over a conversation and coming up with better responses than my actual ones.

To this day, I don’t have a better answer. It’s not something that one can put into words. Us humans can’t be reduced to sound bites, no matter how much we’d like to simplify each other. Throughout my life I have run the gamut of dichotomies. Hero, coward, wise beyond my years, more stupid than one person should be allowed, lover, fighter - every possible contradiction has been a part of my continuing evolution.

My great satisfaction in all of this is that I, unlike the Flock of Seagulls, have not been a one-hit-wonder.

I haven’t had much luck with things that fly. I find them fascinating and beautiful, but somehow they don’t return the Karma.

This beautiful spring day I’m in my kitchen, with my back door open to the splendor that is Arizona spring. I’m minding my own business (which means I wasn’t cleaning up like I should have been) when a ... I don’t know what to call it - flock? Herd? Hive? of bees flies in.

I looked it up, it’s a swarm, duh.

So, a swarm of bees flies in to the kitchen. Immediately I remember a documentary I saw about Africanized bees taking over the Southwest and I’m filled with a conflicted fight or flight instinct. Sanook the dog is no help, he lays on the floor oblivious to our imminent danger. Now to be fair, there were only eight bees, but we were still outnumbered 4 to 1, and if this gang of eight (political pun intended) are Africanized mercenaries and have plans to take dog and I hostage, there’s not much we can do.

My nine year old wanders in, and like the dog, she’s completely unaware of our peril. I resist the urge to tackle her, shielding her with my body, protecting her like a good mother should. I choose to remain frozen wondering if bees are like birds and only see movement. I learned this from the movie Jurassic Park. This knowledge saved the paleontologists and likely will save me. Oh, and my child.

After a few moments of casing the joint, the swarm is attracted to the large windows in the breakfast area. I’m sure they are attempting to signal reinforcements so they can take over the whole house. It would indeed make a nice hive, and now that they’ve checked it out they’d like to set up camp. While my monthly honey bill would certainly decrease, I don’t think they’d make good roommates. I’m trying to decide if invoking the Third Amendment will have any binding power on bees.

Clearly I need to man-up in order to save my home and family. Switching from statue-mode to stealth-mode I escape into the yard. Removing the screens from the windows I sneak back inside, and tell the bees to leave. One immediately obeys while the others ignore me, kind of like my parenting. Gently wielding a magazine in each hand I coax the intruders toward the open windows. They fight me with everything they’ve got. Stubborn bees.

As I prod the last bee out the window to the cheers of my adoring public I sigh with relief. The dog and child are mightily impressed. Locking the house up tight I press my face against the windowpane. This is the first time living in an orange grove seems not such a great idea. This showdown will likely have a repeat. Mark my words bees, I’ll be ready for you next time.

As I stare down the chocolate doughnut left over from yesterday’s Boy Scout meeting I’m trying to figure out why this evil, simpleminded, fried blob holds such enticement over me. It’s from WalMart, as doughnuts go, it’s not gonna taste that good. It’s old, leftover from yesterday. I know I’m not gonna feel that great after I eat it, and yet, like some siren out of the Odyssey it calls to me.

I’ve tried to ignore it. Busying myself with more productive endeavors. Organizing the fridge - throwing away the baggie of slick, black, rotten cilantro does nothing to sell the rest of the fridge’s contents. I eat a yogurt. With all the press yogurt has been getting lately you’d think after eating yogurt I could singlehandedly negotiate Middle East peace, solve the economic crisis and develop a force field against the spell of the doughnut. Apparently all I will be able to do is poop.

I move to the laundry room. Tackling my nemesis will clearly be more fulfilling than eating the doughnut. The fresh scent of fabric softener perks me up. Sorting the whites from the darks I reminisce on how good the dark chocolate glaze looked against the white of the golden cake. I’ve named the doughnut Earl.

Enough of this. I march to the kitchen, scoop up the box and dump the whole thing in the trash. Triumphantly striding back to the laundry room I bask in my self-disciplined glory. I am victorious! I am the Master of my Domain.

This phrase reminds me of an inappropriately funny Seinfeld episode about self control. Which reminds me of another Seinfeld episode... the one where George ate the partially eaten chocolate eclair out of the garbage. Earl looked a little like the eclair. George didn’t die. That was from licking envelopes. Garbage is a whole different genre...and Earl is still safely ensconced in the box.

I often wonder if in the afterlife we will have our lives replayed to us on a huge Panasonic flat-screen. Maybe God and I will share a tub of popcorn while watching me eat my friend Earl out of the garbage. Not one of my more shining moments, and I can’t promise it won’t have an encore.

When I was little I had great plans for my future. About the age of nine I decided I wanted to be Quincy, MD - a forensic pathologist. To my little mind it was the coolest job ever. Running around, solving crime, using a microscope and a cell phone the size of a briefcase. I mean, hey, the job made Jack Klugman look cool, so imagine what it could do for me.

I held on to that dream for many years, through the Ojai Valley Inn summer job, typewriter typing letters to club members one by one. (I threw away more letterhead than I mailed.) Through the mind numbing bookstore clerk hours spent on a stool behind a seldom used cash register. Through the steer (cow) sitting jobs for the neighbors, digging post holes, mucking sheep pens... I always knew I was destined for greater things.

Imagine my delight when standing in a food line today a man sidled up to me and blurted “Are you a receptionist?” Now, don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with receptionists, we need them, but there was no place inside my brain that thought this was a compliment. I’m turning 40 this year... I was dressed up in a skirt and heels... I’m not friendly on the phone...what about me says receptionist?

As my mind tossed around a jumble of responses he beat me to the punch and said “Gettin’ lunch for the boss huh?” Every neuron in my brain was firing, not in a good way. I almost had a seizure from the disorientation. The very sad thing is what I should have said to the original question, after I kneed him in the groin, was “No, I’m a neurosurgeon,” or, “a forensic pathologist.” But I was grappling with the truth that “No, I’m a housewife” doesn’t have the same smack down effect I was looking for.

Gratefully, my buddy wandered off to get utensils and I sulked in a puddle of professional envy. The thing that is the most frustrating for me about this whole experience is I really, really like my job. I’m not embarrassed, or looking elsewhere for employment, I’m quite fulfilled. And, I’m OK with people saying “Oh, you don’t work” to my housewife response. I just never pictured myself as a receptionist.

Luckily, the next time Buddy wandered over he changed the subject. Otherwise we were both destined to be a headline, “Housewife Pathologist in Non-Receptionist Looking Skirt Stabs Innocent Dolt with Fork.”

Well, he’s done it again. My husband was let loose out in society. I try very hard to keep him safe at home, where those who love, and sort of understand, him are the only ones exposed to his, well, um, yeah.

Hubby is an amazingly successful person. While he has had significant professional successes, this is not the arena I’m referring to. He has mastered the ability to be completely at peace with himself. I have never met a person so innately confident, he actually has no shame.

This week at the company breakfast he donned “the jumpsuit.” We usually try and keep “the jumpsuit” under wraps at home but sometimes it just breaks out. The jumpsuit started in high school when he asked his mother for a jumpsuit for Christmas. His mother has a sense of pride and quickly squashed all future hubby's 1970’s fashion suicidal tendencies. The tenacious teenager spoke with his uncle, the mortician, who of course had a spare polyester, seersucker, half-belt that buckles-in-the-front zip up jumpsuit laying around.

Soon, "Sporty" was cruising the Cyprus High School halls looking like Jack La Laine. Yeah, all the kids were wearing them...

While the original jumpsuit long ago met its demise, on his 40th birthday present from the same uncle was a new jumpsuit. Fire engine red. (Just know I have my head in my hands and am rocking back and forth.) Of course nothing says “company breakfast” like a fire engine red, polyester, half-belt that buckles-in-the-front zip up jumpsuit.

I’m told there is video. This is why he can never run for public office. Well, this and the fact that he makes up more words than “W” ever did. I’ve done everything I can to try and class the guy up. But polyester doesn’t burn. The reality is, even if there was no jumpsuit he would still create jumpsuit moments. Indelible experiences those present will remember forever even tell their kids about.

I’ve got the photos of him dressed as Cher. Heard the stories of when with his genial drawl he complimented the buxom woman on her “boots” over the PA system. Gotten the feedback of the handstand contests, yoga competitions, push up galas. He’s even split his pants jumping spread-eagle off a stage.

The beauty of all of this is that if you’re lucky enough to be around for the show, you always leave with a broad smile and feeling a little more secure about yourself. He has a gift that way.

I can’t be a fan. Watching the Super Bowl I felt both exultation and wanted to vomit. Jumping around the room , throwing things at the television, the interceptions, the 101 yard returns, safeties, I just can’t take it. How can I love so deeply and hate so fiercely a bunch of men I’ll never meet. Stupid football.

This behavior is usually confined to the privacy of my own home. My real challenge comes in watching my kids play sports. My son is in a basketball league that has some cooky rules. In the name of skill development, players can’t steal, block shots, or play any defense except stand there with their hands straight in the air. If they bend forward even slightly the other team gets a point. It’s stupid.

So this weekend, in a tied, overtime, sudden death game our team gets stolen from, off the dribble. No call. Sitting in the stands surrounded by parents from the other team I go ballistic. My husband immediately reaches over with his his hand and palms my face, effectively muzzling me and causing me to flail my arms wildly. He’s had to do this before and has become quite adept with practice.

The final play was a penalty, called on my son, for using his hands to block a shot. The other team gets the penalty point and wins the game. My kid runs out of the gym shedding little man tears, bypassing the snack mom, believing he singlehandedly lost the game. I’m torn. Do I catch up with my son to comfort him or do I go “mama bear” on the inept, underpaid, probably volunteer ref. You know where this is going.

Scott sees it too... he palms me again, and with his other hand lifts me by my waistband and carries me from the gym. Arms and legs flailing, not being able to speak or walk, I have time for reflection and to cool off. Once in the car I return to normal mom mode and comfort my little superstar. As we drive from the parking lot, my husband yells out the window “Thanks ref. Good game!” He meant it. He really is that mature.

Stupid good sportsmanship.

Coming home from California I was confronted with a terrible reality. There are a large number of women who shouldn’t be let out in public. Ever. I’m the first to extol the need for society to reward excellence, even competence, but sisters, some of you are giving the rest of us a bad name.

Going through airport security I, along with everyone else, gawked at the woman stuffed into her black spandex pants being “wanded.” Now some of you will applaud because she was fashion savvy enough not to have a panty line, but she was holding up security because her thong, visible above her waistband, was studded with metal. When your backside looks like a couple of spit stained old pillows from your great aunt Sally’s house stuffed into a hefty garbage sack there should be a rule that you are not allowed to buy spandex - or thongs.

Then there was the woman across the security table from me. We smiled at each other as we waited for our purses, shoes and laptops to come through x-ray. I was worried what was taking so long was the box of foil wrapped Ding Dongs in my satchel being mistaken for an explosive device. I have to hand it to the highly trained security folk because they didn’t even stop me and I’m sure the filling in a Ding Dong is explosive under the right circumstances, especially after it's been x-rayed.

No, what was taking so long is the woman across from me had put her purse in the plastic bin in such a way that the straps caught as it went through the x-ray machine, dumping the contents on the floor, the machine and jamming in between the rollers. She asked me if I thought it was safe for her to reach inside the end of the x-ray machine to collect the feminine hygiene products rolling futilely at the end of the conveyor. I shrugged and pretended I had never made eye contact with the woman.

Let’s pull it together ladies. Now, I have to go pick up my van from the body shop. The large rock I backed over must have been put there by a man.

Evidence

I’ve never been known for my fashion sense. In fourth grade I wore a mini skirt on the first day of my new school, only to have to sit on the floor for the most of the day. Most fourth graders don’t have the social skills to physically navigate such a challenge. I was a gangly disaster. Kids mercilessly commented on my choice of underwear. I deserved it, but I haven’t recovered. It was my last mini skirt.

In junior high I begged for the uber stylish leg warmers we wore over our jeans, since it was arctic cold in Southern California. An hallelujah chorus swelled on Christmas morning I opened the blessed pair. They were booger green. Apparently my parents hated me. I was faced with the dilemma of being the only girl at Matilija Junior High not wearing leg warmers or being the only girl who looked like she waded through a puddle left by an elephant with a sinus infection. Trust me, it was a lose-lose situation.

In high school I didn’t have the budget or skill to be in fashion. The cool kids, well, actually everyone, was wearing polo shirts and button fly Levis. There was a definite preppy uniform. I was still wearing the leg warmers. I did wear a skirt once, only to kick at an errant soccer ball rolling my way and rip the seam up to my navel. Leg warmers don’t help in that situation, and again I had come full circle as kids were again commenting on my underwear. No, I was not on the Homecoming Queen ticket.

I’m a huge fan of Garanimals - the children’s label where you match the tiger tag to the tiger tag and voila! Your shirt and pants match. They should be made for adults. It would help both of the grown-up Maloney’s immensely.

That being said, I’m completely inspired by our new first lady. As I watched her and her husband sparkle from ball to ball I realized, I may actually have fashion sense. Her gown appeared to me a knock-off of a gown I crafted a few years ago at a bridal shower using toilet paper. Tomorrow may be the dawn of a new fashion day for me as I’ve gathered duct tape, a collection of re-use gift tissue paper and macaroni.

I’m trying to get the dog to stay still since I can’t find a mannequin...

Today I received some feedback that my writing style was not that entertaining and it was hard to figure out my point. Interesting. The assumption that I have a point is where this reader went wrong. It’s fair criticism since virtually all of my writing is really a conversation with myself and I know what I mean. I know how witty, pithy and deep what I want to say is... the problem is I have to use words.

Words certainly get in the way of all the important things in life. The reality is we have to use words to communicate. We have entered into a social agreement to what the connotation of different letter groupings mean, but the rules can be elusive. How the living language we call English is explained in the dictionary changes from minute to minute. Who knew that one day it would be a compliment to be told your outfit is ‘sick’ or your performance was ‘bad’. To be honest, I’m not hip enough for this slanguage.

The fact is that there are some situations for which words are wholly inadequate. There just aren’t words for the first time I held my newborn baby, the moment I fell in love, the last time I touched the hand of my grandmother before they closed her casket, or the day I saw our neighbor take the trash out in his tightie-whities. Word’s just don’t capture the emotional depth of these moments or the indelible marks they leave.

Words being completely inadequate for their primary function is a tremendous irony. Who among us hasn’t tried to apologize, explain or justify only to have the listener disregard our intent. Having children opens up a whole new facet to the use of language. There is nothing quite as horrible as hearing your children talk like you. Hearing my bossy tone echoed in my firstborn has been a continuing humiliation. Having my sweet little middle child yell at other drivers from his car seat and having my husband ask me where they would learn stuff like that, well it’s hard to feign innocence.

I have a friend who brought her toe-headed toddler to an exclusive pre-school entrance interview, only to have the little darling swear like a sailor. I think everyone is born with a sort of inappropriate radar. Even the tiniest of humans picks up on the naughty words and then blurts them out in places like church. Kids don’t sneak around on the playground saying “ninny” and then giggling uncontrollably. My kids don’t ask me what “fusion” or “genetic splicing” means. They ask me about the words I try not to say.

Recently we had an ‘incident.’ Having three kids pretty close together means two things: At any given time I have two informants for the third kid AND that at any moment they can turn on me like a pack of rabid wolves. Luckily they have not done the math and figured out that they outnumber their parents. Sitting at dinner unnamed child #1 said “Mom, unnamed child #2 said the “S” word today!” Scott immediately gave me the stink eye which I tried to avoid. Yes, they learned the “S” word from me... He launched in to a passionate discourse of why we shouldn’t say that word, how it demeans us as individuals and is disrespectful to those around us. His presentation was punctuated by weighted pauses giving him time to glare at me.

The offending child was appropriately remorseful, weepy and contrite. After apologizing and begging our forgiveness unnamed child #2 promised they would never, ever, ever say the word “stupid” again.

Word.