Erin go blah!

I do not love St. Patrick's Day because it has always started off badly in my house.

Green is not a standard color in my family's wardrobe. That means my kids can't easily participate in the holiday's main activity (besides drinking beer), which is wearing green.

Therefore, you can always guarantee that I will begin every March 17 with a stressful dash around the house looking for any shirt in the green family.

Except for the years when I went to Snowden Jr. High School, where our mascot was the Greenies, I have always had to wear something with a green stripe or green letters or green checks.

I spend the day fending off pinchers by saying, "Nope, wait, see this? This little thread right here is green!"

My kids are doing it, too. My youngest, who was the most into the wearing of the green, had to choose between his older brother's too-big gym shirt from Brentwood Middle School or a too-small green T-shirt of his that I'd dug out of a Goodwill bag.

If I were smart, I'd go spend a little green on something green for next year.

Why, yes, that is a log in my eye

I've been going to church for, like, my whole life now, but I'm not getting any better at it.

It's not church's fault, of course. It's just that there are so many other people there messing up my holy experience.

My entire family manages to get out of the house early on other days, but on Sundays we act like we've never done it before. In fact, I've written before about how a visit to church is an opportunity for all seven deadly sins to pop up. I sin all the other days of the week, but shouldn't I do it less, not more, at church? God is REALLY watching me on Sunday, right? Shouldn't I be at my best while I'm in His house?

I think God's onto me.

The main thing working against me on Sunday, besides pride and judgment, is that I don't deal well with crowds. My church is really big and has a lot of people trying to get to different places in a hurry. It wasn't always that way. It had a beautiful, normal-sized sanctuary when I started going there in 1991, but it has grown tremendously over the past two decades because it is so awesome and so many other people want to attend. My husband started going there in 1978 as an eighth-grader, and it's where we want our boys to grow up, too.

I just hope the church experience doesn't kill me before I get to see that happen.

The breakdown begins before we even arrive. With so many faithful followers, our church naturally has parking "issues." To relieve some of those issues, they implemented a shuttle bus to ferry people to and from an empty office parking lot across the street.

My family used to ride the shuttle bus, but I'll tell you the truth. I shied away from the shuttle because those folks were just too damn cheerful for Sunday morning. Am I the only one who finds it hard to be sweet after an exhausting car ride spent convincing 13-year-olds that, no, they are not the only boys on earth who have to wear long pants and a collared shirt to church?

Maybe it's also the fact that my body is two decades older, too, but some mornings before we're even done with church, I am worn out. After we forgo the shuttle and park a quarter-mile away, we get upstairs to the balcony, where we like to sit so our 6-year-old can see everything. We used to choose our seat according to whatever activity we needed to watch our kids doing, whether they were acolyting or singing in the choir. Lately, however, a new factor has come into play: the overly fragranced parishioner.

If I didn't already have a headache after the drive to church, I will have one after sitting near a woman who has on too much perfume. It doesn't matter if I'm in front of, next to or behind her, that overwhelming smell will keep me from focusing on the "Our Father" no matter how hard I try.

All I can do is watch carefully next week and hope she heads the other way. But then I'm judging again, right? In church! Zap!

Still, you never know who's going to overdo the Estee Lauder on any given Sunday.

Other worship service regulars who mess with my holiness include the Toddler who Colors Very Vigorously. And you thought coloring was a quiet activity! It always enhances prayer time when mom stores the crayons in a metal box or a Velcro pouch.

Some men in my church have begun letting their Sunday clothes speak for them, especially in the fall. When their favorite college football team wins the day before, they'll wear the school logo or colors to church the next day. Now, I don't have a problem with a tie that has little tigers or even tiny gators on it. But if you're 54 years old and you wear a crimson Alabama T-shirt to church under your suit jacket, I think you're violating, like, the whole book of Matthew. We're supposed to be praising God, not Nick Saban.

Zap!!

After we stand up and sit down 27 times in the service, with all the "singing" of songs I still don't know because I can't read music, we have to run our 6-year-old down two flights of stairs to his Sunday school class and then find our own class on another floor, with a possible trip to the cavernous youth area downstairs. In heels. When that's over, it's time to head to the back of the parking lot to our car. That's all before 11 a.m.

Whew!

I'm not the only one still seeking peace in the sanctuary. Last week I ran into a friend in the hallway, and she had such an exasperated look on her face, I asked, "Are you okay?"

"No," she huffed. "You will not believe what I just saw."

She had just left the casual service that has praise music with a band, which I can't stand, but that's another post for another day. My friend is not a complainer, though, so I was really concerned about what got her riled up.

"We were praying, during the final benediction, and I kept hearing someone talking. I looked over, and this woman was standing in front of the stained glass window talking on her cell phone! During the prayer! She was trying to cover the mouthpiece to keep it quiet, but I kept thinking, 'There's a door right there! Why don't you just step out?!'"

No, nothing is sacred anymore.

Really, I love my church. Besides the whole eternal salvation thing, I love sitting close to my family in the pews, because I can't make my older boys sit next to me any other day of the week. I love seeing my kindergartner recite "Our Father" by heart. I love looking down at the choir and seeing my friends' babies, who somehow along the way grew up and drove themselves there. I feel for the ministers, who do this three times on Sunday and once on Saturday night.

The fact that I can't turn off my powers of observation when I'm there is my problem.

So, why do it, you ask? If it's so stressful, why not go to a smaller church, if a big church is "not for you"?

With my luck, I'd find a small church where the membership was just my family plus Mr. Alabama Fan, Mrs. Estee Lauder and their children, Miss Vigorous Colorer and Little Pew Kicker.

And me, Church Lady in Training.

You won't find us where the wild things are

We are not big puppet people around here. My husband and I both have always found puppet shows particularly cringeworthy, and it looks like that aversion has passed down to our kids, especially Owen.
Well, the twins weren't morally opposed to puppets the way Owen is. They at least would watch Sesame Street, and I have always given credit to Sesame Street for teaching them letters and numbers as well as, you guessed it, cooperation.
Owen, on the other hand, gets pissed if you try to leave the TV on a program with puppets. His unexplained opposition to this kind of kid's show is legendary around here, so we're usually watching the History Channel, the Military Channel, Discovery or House Hunters, which teaches a surprising amount of geography. I guess his one exception is Phineas and Ferb, which is hilarious enough for adults but has no snotty twins calling people "loser."
So I wasn't too concerned about hitting Fandango to get tickets for Where the Wild Things Are. Though it's a classic, we don't even own the book. Owen said he had seen that book at preschool, then went back to playing Star Wars. Tim brought it home from the library because, of course, neither of us had read it since childhood.
You know what? I thought it was a terrible kids' book. I really could not believe that Maurice Sendak would start a book and then just stop writing in the middle when it's getting good. I guess when it came out it was a fun idea to think about kids going to their wild place. But I much prefer The Salamander Room for imagination.
My interest in the movie version of the wild things piqued when I heard it was directed by Spike Jonze. Still, I'll stick with what I think are Jonze's most important contributions to date, which are showing us that Christopher Walken can, in fact, dance like a mofo and introducing us to his spoof with the Torrance Community Dance Group performing to the Fatboy Slim song Praise You.
There be genius, and it won't depress my kids.

The inevitable

I’ve been thinking a lot about a mom I used to know named Laura. We weren’t friends; her daughter was in the same preschool class as one of my twins. Still, she was one of my favorite people to see four days a week because she always smiled, and her daughter was sweet. She didn’t gang up with some cronies in the school entrance like a sorority clique, ignoring anyone who didn’t serve one of her purposes. She walked her kid in, spoke a few friendly words to any moms who also happened to be there, and went on her way.
I was fascinated by her because she just seemed above it all, but not in a snobby way. She had a life waiting for her, you could tell, but she wasn’t trying to prove it to anyone. And she influenced me a lot.
See, some moms behave the way they probably behaved in high school, the way a lot of grown guys act like frat boys when they get together. A really good blogger I like to read calls them the Muffia, because they can be pretty intimidating if you’re just trying to get your kid in the door and to the right classroom. They’re the ones who drive the biggest SUVs, park where there’s not really a parking spot (oh, wait, I used to do that sometimes), talk really loudly about the awesome stuff they’re doing, and wear kitten heels on field day.
So if you know you’re not one of the Muffia (and you know when you’re not), it’s a relief to come across someone who just is open and friendly to everyone, even someone like me who dares to wear house pants to preschool drop-off instead of True Religion jeans.
Sometimes during field trips or class parties, Laura and I would talk, and I found out that her preschool daughter was her third child, not her first, which would explain why she was not one of the giddy sorority types. She had done it all before, and she could control herself in the presence of her peers.
Not only was this her third child, but there was a significant age difference between her first two and her third kid. Kind of like how Owen is seven years younger than his brothers. At the time, I just had the twins, but hearing Laura talk about her family and the perspective the age difference gave her made me consider having another child someday.
Up until then, I always said, “No way, no how. Never, never, never again.” Caring for the twins as infants and toddlers was so hard for me that I told myself that we would always be a family of four. Then during the twins’ last year of preschool, when they were 5, I lay awake one night and realized that they would both leave the house for college at the same time and that would be it. I didn’t want that.
Now my third child, the one who is seven years younger than my first kids, is barreling toward kindergarten, and I think about Laura a lot. One thing she told me as we finished up that last preschool year was that she couldn’t wait for summer. I shivered because, with the twins, I was at the preschool any time the doors were open, looking for something else to entertain my two boys, someone else for them to look at and talk to instead of me. A change of scenery, if you will.
“No, I’m really looking forward to this summer,” Laura said, “because it’s the last one before they start real school. I’m just really going to enjoy my time with her because once you get on that school schedule, you don’t get off until they graduate.”
She was speaking from experience, and I knew she was right. She didn’t see her child’s childhood as something to get through. Moms can and should enjoy it, too, and I do now, thanks to Laura.
My 13-year-olds don’t give me good pajama hugs anymore, but my 5-year-old still does. I’m so glad I have him, even though a party of five is way harder to seat at a restaurant than a party of four.

Footwear, above all

Since we took our family vacation early this year, I'm offering my helpful advice on how to go from an "after" to a "before" on your summer vacation.

1) Choose shoes based on looks, not function. I was so excited when I bought my adorable Crocs Patricia sandals. (Crocs also makes wedges now! I know!!!) I stood in Macy's and proclaimed, 'These shall be my Disney sandals!' because they are comfy, somehow very lightweight yet supportive. Also, they're Crocs, so it wouldn't hurt them to get wet since we'd be riding Splash Mountain and sitting in the Soak Zone at Shamu Stadium. I hurried home to plan all my Orlando outfits around these vaunted shoes.

I did not anticipate 95 degree weather in early May or the Florida humidity. These, coupled with a 12-hour car ride and many more hours standing and walking than I am used to, caused my feet to swell and the evil Crocs sandals rubbed a nickel-sized blister on the top of my left foot. Actually, I knew by the time we walked across the concrete prairie from our truck to the Seaworld entrance on our first day that my feet were in trouble. Of course, I'd packed Band-Aids in case THE BOYS needed them, but I used at least a dozen that day.

2) You might not think a blister would affect your look. That leads me to tip #2, which is the blister walk. I had to modify my walk to compensate for that blister as much as I could, so other Seaworld visitors must have thought I was smuggling baby sea lions out between my knees as I hobbled across the park. I resisted complaining audibly and instead chided myself for thinking I could be cute at a theme park. On Day #2 at Animal Kingdom, I still refused to succumb to tennis shoes and wore my bathroom flip-flops because they didn't rub the blister spot. After only an hour in the simulated jungle, my legs were so tired that I walked like the 80-year-olds. Actually the 80-year-olds were doing great on their scooters and Hoverounds. Between the motorized old folks and the stroller brigade, we were about the only people walking!

3) Ride the wettest rides first, so your freshly sprayed hair will get soaked and form an impenetrable crust that looks wet all the livelong day.

4) Drink much more lemonade and Diet Coke than you usually do since that's what you can get in your refillable Disney mug.

5) Accidentally leave your expensive face soap at the Hampton Inn in Cordele, Georgia, so that you have to use the super fatty Mickey soap provided by Disney resorts.

6) Slather sunscreen on your face, especially if you usually don't, then try to put on blush as you normally would. Coppertone does wonders for powder makeup, making the colors more vibrant and clownlike.

7) Finally, accept the fact that no one at the theme park except your youngest children ever looks at you. They are all just trying to survive the crowds with their own family members intact. Fashion is not a consideration. If you want proof, scroll down to the photo of my boys in front of the Animal Kingdom gate, click on it and look at the crowd in the background. That's what everyone looked like. See the grown man wearing Mickey's magical wizard hat? People wore that stuff all day. I saw dads wearing rhinestone-studded, princess-themed Mickey ears that their daughters had discarded on the Peter Pan ride. NO ONE cares what you wear. By the third day I did something I would never do in Brentwood. I pulled out the only pair of capris I'd brought and wore them with my tennis shoes, which mercifully did not hit the blister. And I walked from Pirates of the Caribbean all the way to Buzz Lightyear's Space Ranger Spin with nary a limp.

8) Don't forget to pose for pictures without sucking anything in so you look pregnant. Clutch your giant lemonade as if life depended on it. Be sure to turn so that the angle showcases the fleshiest part of your arm. Ahhhh, success! I've included the above photo for demonstration purposes only. You results may vary.

How much is a dent, anyway?

Me, to the 5-year-old: "Owen, you're breaking my No. 1 fashion rule for boys. I cannot allow you to wear that black T-shirt with those navy blue shorts."

Owen: growls loudly, once he understands that he is not in actual trouble: "GAAARRRR. I like it. I like it. I WANT to wear it. I don't care about fashion one dent!"

Me, surprised by his ferocity: "Well, your dad will be happy because he doesn't care about fashion one dent either."

Worst Spring Break Ever

This is photographic evidence of what my kids did during Spring Break last year. Thanks to a combination of my husband's inability to take time off work and something we'll call "the economy," my three boys and I spent the week exploring whatever free stuff Nashville offered. Come to find out, that's called a "staycation," and I was apparently ahead of the trend in family travel. When we weren't eating free birthday cake at the Belmont Mansion or climbing the walls at Ft. Negley, the boys got pretty bored outside. So while their friends were bragging about ski trips or Caribbean getaways, you can bet the big boys left out the details about how they Macgyvered our riding toys together.

Thanks to my parents, though, the twins will have something to brag about this year.
I'm sure that what happens in D.C. won't stay in D.C.!

Age is only a number, right?

When you’re planning to have a baby, you can't understand how important the baby’s birthdate will be.
For example, I learned the hard way that football season is not an ideal time to have a kid, as I had to plan my last C-section around that year’s SEC and Titans home schedules.
We have Big Orange friends whose second child was due in September a few years ago. The dad went to the UT game at Florida anyway, then high-tailed it back in time to see the baby’s head crowning.
Another factor to consider in family planning is youth league sports. Start researching before you get pregnant if you think you might encourage your baby to be an athlete. Find out the age cut-offs for each sport so you can avoid having your child “play up” a year.
“Play up” is a euphemism that means your boy who just turned 12 a month ago will have to step up to bat against a 14-year-old pitcher who sounds like James Earl Jones and is covered with hair. This happened to my next-door neighbor, who said her kid looked like an embryo next to that manchild.
In our baseball league, the birthday cut-off for different age divisions is Aug. 1. My twins were born July 1. So just when they were becoming mediocre in the 7-year-old division, they turned 8 and moved up from machine-pitch to kid-pitch with boys who are almost 10.
I suspect that kid-pitch is the best way dads could stretch an hour-long baseball game to two hours. At this level, coaches are less likely to switch kids around to different positions on the field so “everybody gets a chance.” Usually the boy who is the best athlete on the team, meaning the boy who can get the ball to the person he’s aiming for, is named the pitcher.
This child throws 45 to 55 pitches per inning because the rest of the team is made of boys like mine whose parents have told them they’re playing “for fun,” meaning three out of four will walk, strike out or foul off.
Fouling off is what dad-coaches do when my precious baby finally hits the ball and I start screaming because it looks like it’s going really, really far and, oh my gosh, he’s just getting to first base when some mean dad yells, “Foul ball!”
The hardest thing for me to stomach is the push for kids to be better athletes at a younger age. I almost had a stroke in 1995 when the NBA drafted Kevin Garnett straight out of high school. Now fifth-graders can have pitching coaches, eighth-graders are scouted and high-school phenoms regularly dominate the local sports page.
At this rate, birth announcements will include height, weight and batting average.

Puttin' on airs

I adore offbeat shirts and accessories, like this crime scene tape scarf I found on Girlz Lyfe.com.

My problem is that I usually get stuff like this and then, the first time I wear it out into The World, I'm overcome by a fit of self-consciousness and wish that nobody would ask me about my really cool item that just begs to be asked about. I know I've written here before about this old T-shirt I had that read, "Just researching my novel." One time as I stood waiting for the Sam's Club guy to check my receipt on my way out the door, he said, "What's your novel about?" I never thought someone might not buy into the irony of my oh-so-clever T-shirt. And some things just turn out to be stupid when explained.
Once Tim got me these awesome earrings that are miniature levels, the kind you'd find in a toolbox, but I cringe when people lean in to get a closer look. I know, 'Make up your mind, Mrs. Passive-Aggressive Deviationist! Notice me! Don't notice me! Which is it?'

I could just keep getting this stuff and enjoy it without an audience. The truth is, though, it's no fun to be fabulous at home all day. The kids are not adequately impressed by my intermittent eccentricities. I like to wear stuff that has a sense of humor. I just get embarrassed when everybody's not in on the joke.

Road weary

If you’re reading this on Monday, chances are it’s because you drove the entire state of Alabama and back to visit all the relatives for Thanksgiving.
With the holidays comes the insurmountable quest to visit every family member on the tree so no one’s feelings get hurt. Of course, this is as simple as finding the electric knife when the turkey’s ready.
Still, the urge to achieve family holiday harmony resurfaces annually like It’s a Wonderful Life. We want to please all the grandparents because once you become your own family, you realize how much goes into making the holidays happy.
This stress is why adult children lament that the holidays don’t have the same magic they did when they were little. Well, of course not. Right about the time you get married and get in on the holiday logistical planning, you realize why your mom always got that Thanksgiving headache and your dad’s eyes glazed over during dinner.
That childhood naiveté is part of the holiday magic. Remember when you were in college and your mom still signed your name with theirs on gift cards? In your postgraduate days when you and your siblings got together at your folks’ to eat and play board games into the wee hours on Thanksgiving night, your only care was whether you’re going to play Monopoly or Trivial Pursuit next. That’s grown-up holiday magic.
Now it’s a struggle to feel that magic when you’re trying to cram all the wrapped gifts into the car-top carrier, or when the crowd at the Louisville Cracker Barrel looks like…the crowd at the Franklin Cracker Barrel.
Your disillusionment begins when you have The First Grandchild. Suddenly you are responsible not only for your child’s holiday happiness but for that of your parents as well because you are bringing the most important gift of all: the baby.
Up till now it never occurred to you that your parents might have feelings, that they might not love eating at Waffle House on Christmas morning while you enjoy French toast at your in-laws’ place.
But marriage, divorce, in-laws and exes all claim a piece of your pumpkin pie, so the family tries to devise a system that won’t sacrifice anyone’s sanity.
For years, my family had what we considered the foolproof “home and away” plan. If Thanksgiving was at the three brothers’ parents’ house, it was called “home,” and that Christmas would be at the wives’ parents’ houses, or “away.” The following year, we’d switch.
When we were first married, Labor Day picnic conversations usually started with, “So, are we ‘home’ or ‘away’ for Thanksgiving this year?”
However, all it takes to destroy the system’s delicate balance is for one of the grown kids to opt out by moving across the country or having two or three more babies. If your family is facing this season without a plan, I hope you all won’t be sitting around the fire singing that new holiday classic:
“Over the river and through the woods to the therapist’s couch we go….”

The dame can't help it

Just as my oldest sons are entering their awkward phase, I've hit an unexpected awkward stage in my life in which I feel self-conscious when I hear myself using the word "girl" to describe my friends. It just doesn't sound right to say, "This girl at Bible study said the funniest thing today," to my husband and then turn to my 12-year-old and ask, "Who was that girl you were talking to after football today?'
I mean, we're all around age 40, and I can't use the same word to describe my friends and my kids' friends, can I? I need a new word for everyday use, I guess, but I can't use "lady" for obvious reasons and I don't like "gal" because I hate how it sounds. "Girl" has been perfect for so long, and everything else is either too formal (woman, female, milady) or too loose (chick, babe, broad, etc.) I may have to make up my own word, unless you have suggestions...

In preparation for the Lord's Day

At our house, we save our most ungodly behavior for Sundays. We don’t do it on purpose, of course, because we begin the Sabbath as we do every day, with noble intentions.
But by the time we’ve coaxed every child out of bed, convinced them to wear “nice” clothes, sent two out of three back inside for Bibles and argued about the best way to drive the six miles to church, we’re all behaving like we’re traveling first class on the Hell Express.
Maybe you’ve committed some of the Seven Sunday Sins.
Pride: In my unenlightened high school days, I viewed the communion walk as a convenient fashion runway upon which people paraded so I could covertly rate their outfits. Now that I shop for my kids more than myself, I’m like Ma Walton with the one faded Sunday dress. And I’m not all thankful that I have it, either.
Greed: I’m stingiest with my time, which is especially evident when I’m so busy rushing to get to Mrs. Winners before the drive-thru line gets long that I blow right past the new joiners without even saying how-do.
Envy: Please. I’ve envied the Kennedy-coiffed couples who pull up to the sanctuary with their big black sunglasses and the spit-shined Lexuses. I’ve envied the folks who know all the words to the hymns and sing in tune. The list is everlasting.
Anger: Driving on Sunday morning at Concord and Franklin roads, hereafter known as the Saints Highway, summons up the Pharisee in all of us since there are three churches battling for the right of way. Now they've added two traffic lights to help Brentwood Baptist and Fellowhip Bible folks get out of my way. And yes, you are the bigger heathen if you honk at the guy who cuts you off in the church parking lot.
A friend confessed that she tuned out most of one Sunday’s sermon because she was angry that she was forced to stare at the bare back of the teenage girl in front of her through the entire service. Guess that teenager’s mom forgot that the 11th commandment forbids backless dresses at church.
Lust: See above.
Gluttony: Only you and the Lord keep track of how many free cups of church coffee you take. But those of us who homestead the good seats on the aisle are little Sunday morning piggies, too. One time our church lot was so full I parked in guest parking. I had three kids with me, so I rationalized that God would rather I park in guest parking than skip church altogether.
Sloth: Sleeping in? Check. Sunday morning golf game? That counts. Mouthing the words to the processional hymn? Check. Forgoing Sunday school for Starbucks? Hmmm.
At least I don’t make change in the collection plate.

Polyester curtains and a redwood deck

Apparently all the same fools who run to Kroger if our local meteorologist mentions snow flurries have decided to cause a gas shortage here in Middle Tennessee. Just here, nowhere else.
No one can explain why, but panicked drivers yesterday caused such a run on gas stations that the paper reported today that 85% were out of gas. OUT. As in "can't get any, now matter how much money you have."
Oh, believe me, it was a crisis here in Brentwood. You know it's bad when moms driving Escalades are sitting 15 cars back in line to get gas, because they don't like to wait for anything. There was no interruption of cell phone service, of course, so those were fired up and in use as the No. 1 boredom-prevention device.
I drive a Ford Explorer, which is like a junior varsity SUV. I justify it by reminding myself that it uses regular gas. But I had let my gas gauge drop below 1/4 and just assumed, like I always do, that I'd fill up after dropping Owen off at preschool Friday. See around here, we're used to getting what we "need" when we need it. So when I pulled into my favorite Mapco, which was eerily not busy, my heart sped up when I saw plastic grocery sacks over all the gas nozzles.
No, no, no, this can't be happening here. Only the teeny tiny country towns actually run out of gas. This Mapco is about 50 yards from Interstate 65 and the biggest mall in the state. I still have to pick up three boys from three different locations and drive to a birthday party at Glow Galaxy! We cannot be OUT OF GAS.
Same story over at the Shell station. Grocery sacks. No gas. No prices on the signs. That's when my "low gas" light came on. I went home and began thinking about hoarding canned goods.
At this point we only had one vehicle that had a couple of gallons in it. To illustrate how our lives were thrown into a tailspin during the Brentwood gas crisis, my husband and the boys RODE BIKES to Owen's soccer game this morning. I, of course, drove the vehicle on fumes because I was bringing the chairs.
On my way there, Tim called my cell phone and whispered, "I just heard someone say the Concord Corner Market has gas and there is no line." I drove straight there and took up spot No. 9 in the newly forming line. Rather than piling up cell phone minutes, I commenced to judging the other people in line in front of me.
"Well, she got done pretty quick," I thought. "She must not really have needed gas. I'M ON FUMES HERE, PEOPLE!" I started thinking it would be a good idea for the store employees to come out and order the lines according to need. If cars have half a tank or more, send them on home. Of course, I assumed I'd be near the front of the line since I was running on FUMES.
My nominations for worst violators of the unwritten gas crisis rules were the woman in the Yukon who kept trying to top off, and the man pulling a trailer that carried a lawn tractor and three five-gallon gas cans. "Oh please, does he really need to MOW today? I'm running on FUMES here, mister, and I'm late for my kid's soccer game."
I mean, what's next? I may actually have to carpool.

Do not forget your checkbook

Most men probably have never been to a home party, but I’ll bet their wives have. It’s one of the necessary evils of suburban life.
At a home party, women gather in a friend’s home to view a presentation by a product consultant who will make them wonder how they’ve lived this long without that product.
Since I moved here 17 years ago, I’ve been to most every kind of party there is, beginning with a Longaberger basket party the first year I was married. These baskets are intricately made, which means “expensive.”
In that budget-conscious newlywed year, I forever ruined my husband’s view of home parties by purchasing what is still known in our house as “THE $65 basket.”
The key to a successful home party is the consultant, who, if she knows what she is doing, will suck you in with stories of how the company founder built his fortune one odd job at a time. She will impress you with tales of how, with a quick change of the machine-washable liner, one basket can serve as an ice bucket or, say, a baby cradle, and you suddenly think you need three of them.
Since then, I’ve enjoyed eating snacks and looking over products ranging from jewelry to developmental toys, books, candles, oil paintings and kitchen gadgets.
Which brings me to the Pampered Chef party. If you ever are invited to one, you should go because the consultant prepares food. The samples are worth enduring your husband’s eye roll.
Working as a consultant enables stay-home moms to make money, and the parties give us another reason to get together and talk. As if we needed one.
Not everyone loves them, though. I have a friend who once announced to our group, “Please do not ever invite me to a home party. It will not hurt my feelings, but I will not come, so save yourself the postage.” What a refreshing, straightforward approach.
Like baby showers, I haven't been invited to as many home parties lately. I'm mostly in the graduation gift-buying market.
Husbands usually speak derisively of home parties, probably because a) they either have to clear out of the house for 2 hours or entertain the kids and b) they’re jealous because there aren’t any home parties geared toward men.
I can just see my husband and his friends munching tomato-basil pizza squares and chatting up the merchandise the way we do.
“Dude, you should so get that Weed Eater. It would be perfect for that tight spot between your mailbox and the curb.”
“Yes, and those UT floormats you picked really bring out the brown fleck in your car upholstery.”
Copyright 2004

Most evil

So I thought about it all summer, and I've decided that the French pedicure must be the most evil of all beauty treatments.
It hit me as I sat in the orthodontist waiting room across from another mom who had on the standard Capri pants and sandals. Scanning down to her feet, I noticed that she had the most precise French pedicure I'd ever seen, and I tried to picture the person who did that lovely job.
My biggest problem with the French pedi, beside the fact that you are paying someone to work on your FEET, is that it requires two things I don't have a lot of: (1) a good, clear block of previously unclaimed time to just sit and let someone work on your feet, and (2) anywhere from $35 to $50 about every two weeks.
Those things and the image of a nail tech hunched over my feet in pursuit of that straight white line under my toenails make me hate the French pedi.
Or maybe I'm just jealous.

I need a vacation from my vacation

I’ve stopped reading women’s magazines, and I’m still here.
I became a better mom when I put down the parenting magazines and just played with my kids. And my brain has been calmer since I stopped caring what Glamour thinks about my career path.
Now, I should mention that I majored in magazines in college. My undergraduate major really was magazine editing and production, so it may give my boycott credibility to know that I once wanted to devote my life to making magazines.
Over the years, though, I’ve whittled down my list of “must-read” magazines because I got tired of hearing headlines in my head: “You need these 10 fashion must-haves for fall. Your butt will jiggle less if you do these exercises. Your family will worship you if you cook this stew tonight.”
These publications are full of unsolicited attempts to improve my life. The last straw? An article suggesting I put fresh sheets on the bed the day I leave for vacation so I still get that “hotel” feeling when I return home.
If you could see my house the day we leave for a vacation, you’d know why that sent me over the edge. Let’s just say that if firefighters had to break into our house while we were gone, they’d assume someone had ransacked it before setting it ablaze.
Regardless of how much planning goes into an out-of-town trip, there’s always a last-minute frenzy to get out the door, especially if you have children. And a frenzy usually leaves a mess.
Toddlers are the unknown in the trip preparation equation. The day you are to leave, your 2-year-old will wake up at 5:30 and demand more attention than usual because he can’t figure out what the suitcases are for.
You’ll find yourself pumping Goldfish crackers into your toddler like coins into a parking meter, buying time to pack your make-up bag so all of Destin won’t think you’re arriving after a lengthy hospital stay.
Instead of checking off the list of beach toys your older children wanted to bring, you end up offering things you’d never otherwise let the baby play with just to keep him occupied.
“Here, Ethan. Play with this butterfly hair clip. Look how pretty. Here, look at the newspaper. See Daddy’s calculator? Push all the pretty buttons. Wanna hold Mommy’s hair dryer?”
So forgive me, Good Housekeeping, if I don’t have time to run around pouring Pine Sol into all the toilets before I leave so it smells like a pine forest instead of a musty basement when we get back.
Besides, it wouldn’t be a homecoming unless we open the door after a week away and one of us says, “Whew, who forgot to take out the trash?”

Copyright 2005