Did You Ever Wonder . . .

Why do hard boiled eggs stink like an old man's pruny poots, but scrambled eggs smell savory and delicious?

You probably haven't wondered, but I just thought I'd ask.

Dream Home Doldrums

HGTV is running their annual dream home sweepstakes. And of course it fits right in with my fantasy of making an abrupt left turn and veering off on a new adventure.

Not that anything is really wrong with my current adventure. Most days present me with something completely unexpected, like one of my kids telling me at 9 p.m. that he needs a poster board for a project due THE NEXT DAY, or one of them vomiting in a paper bag in the back seat on the way to school after he looked perfectly fine at breakfast, or me walking out of the mirrored YMCA door and slipping and falling down in the parking lot, spilling the contents of my purse on the asphalt, five lipsticks rapidly rolling toward the storm drain.

Yes, my life is definitely high adventure. But sometimes I do get carried away thinking about up and doing something completely different, out of the blue. A move-in ready home in the middle of the Arizona desert sounds like it could satisfy my wanderlust.

So I filled out the form and entered the random drawing. As soon as I clicked the SUBMIT button, panic seized me by the throat and kneed me in the gut. It shook me like a rag doll, shouting, "You fool! What if you win! What will you do then?"

"It comes with a car," I sputtered. "A 2010 GMC Terrain."

"How will you ever get the car back to Georgia?" panic pried.

"It comes with $500,000 dollars," I countered.

"Just enough to pay the property taxes and take one round-trip flight out to see your prize," panic pointed out.

By this time my eyes were bugging out of my head, but I didn't give in. "I could have fun there, being somebody different than I am here. That house is sleek and contemporary, up to date and new. Plus, no one would dare throw-up in the back seat of my new Terrain."

Panic tsk-tsked me, wrapping itself tight around my chest. "You're a southerner right down to your double helix," it said. "You have absolutely no idea what to do with yourself in a desert with no humidity."

I fought back panic, held it down and instructed it to cry mercy, and I entered again, to show it who's boss. But it refuses to say uncle and as the February 19 entry deadline approaches, I can feel it rising to its feet again. How will it treat me if I win?

The Singing Fingers

A window into the secret world of a bored child with a video camera. Never let 'em tell you they have "nothing to do."

Girls in the Bathroom

Thursday, between afternoon activities, too far from home to make a pit-stop there, my boys and I had about an hour to kill. Because I am a good, good mother, a virtual Queen of the Mamas, I took them to a sports bar & grill. Every inch of wall space was covered with televisions, all tuned into different channels, none of which was HGTV. While I found myself over-stimulated, they found themselves in boy heaven.

We ordered a couple of greasy appetizers in the food categories that will someday be life-threatening to them, when they are in their 40s. They scarfed it so fast it was a wonder the waitress had any fingers on her right hand after setting down the plates and retracting her arm. She looked scared, like she had reached into the gorilla enclosure at the zoo without thinking.

Before piling into the car, again, to drive to our next destination, I told the boys to go to the restroom. I did the same. I'm pretty sure they didn't wash their hands because they all three were impatiently waiting for me when I exited the Ladies' Room. "Mama," gasped my 10 year-old, "there were girls in our bathroom." Using his hands to indicate an enormous amount, he repeated, "Lots of girls! Everywhere!"

Hearing this made me momentarily panic. Did I go in the wrong bathroom? How mortifying. I would do something like that, too. I glanced at the doors, to check my attention to detail. Nope, I entered the correct lavatory. "What were girls doing in the Men's Room?"

Excitedly, he said, "They were in their cheerleader uniforms and stuff like that."

Seeing my look of consternation - although he wouldn't have used that word to describe it, he would have said SHOCK - my 12 year-old explained, "Just pictures of girls, Mama," which sent my head reeling in another sordid direction. But before I could address that thought, he added, "and there're two flat-screen TVs in there, too! I love this place." Then he sighed.

"It's a wonder y'all ever came out," I responded.

The worst part of the whole scene, was that I felt jilted; not just for myself, but for all women everywhere who have ever been to a sports bar & grill. Because all I had in my bathroom was a baby changing station and a dusty, plastic palm, sure signs of discrimination. No wonder there weren't any girls in my bathroom.