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?

Suggested Mother's Day Gifts

As a mama, I look forward to a Mother's Day breakfast in bed with children crowded in around me, watching my face intently to see how much I enjoy the peanut butter eggs.

As a second grade teacher, I have a vested interest in making sure all mothers everywhere get recognized with homemade cards, paper flowers, plaster of Paris hand prints, and heartfelt poems.

And I believe that it is essential for dads to further aid the kids in showing appreciation to mom by taking them shopping for all the extras: Chocolate, wine, diamonds, chocolate, and a good book.

For chocolate, may I recommend Ghirardelli or Godiva? For wine, I suggest something pink. For diamonds, the bigger the better. And for a good book, there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that she'll never forget this Mother's Day when, with one click of your mouse, you give her, If Mama Don't Laugh, It Ain't Funny:

Talk to Your Kids About Potatoes Before Their Friends Do

This is the picture. The one and only picture I managed to snap when we went on vacation to winter:

That's some sure-nuf expensive ice cream!


But it's never too early to find a natural opportunity to talk to your kids about potatoes before their friends do.

Almost There

I received the final proof for If Mama Don't Laugh, It Ain't Funny from the publisher this week. Well, actually, it's the final proof before I get to proof a sample copy of the actual book with the cover and everything. Reading all these proofs has proven to me just how human errors are.

When I first wrote all of the material for the book, I thought it was perfect. When I compiled it into the initial form of the book to send to the publisher, I knew it was perfect. Five proofs later, and three red ink pens emptier, I'm still finding mistakes and wording that isn't quite right. I'm amazed at how If Mama Don't Laugh has evolved throughout the process. And I have discovered that true perfection is an elusive goal.

If left to listening to my own self-inflicted, self-critical internal voice that enjoys telling me how my efforts aren't good enough, how I could have tried harder, and how I don't know what I'm doing, I would never have a finished product. Thank heavens for editors and publishers who speak loudly in order to drown out writers' insecurities about their work.

But intuitively, I know that If Mama Don't Laugh, It Ain't Funny will take my readers on a Space Shot of laughs, as they jump with me from throwing pre-adolescents out of the house, to getting on amusement park rides more suitable for 12 year-old boys than 30-something year-old women, to unclogging the vacuum cleaner hose by blowing in it. And it won't be long now, before we're both there together.

Thank you to my loyal and faithful readers, and to the ones who have recently come on board, for your continuous and genuine support. And thank you, as well, for forgiving me my imperfections.

What Really Irks Me

Okay, so I'm pushing my buggy through Wal-mart, aggravated that everybody in my house ate all the food from my last grocery run, two (possibly three) weeks ago. They go through it like I plan to go shopping every week. They're insatiable locusts. If it were up to me, every person would have his own IV hooked onto a little stand with wheels.


But it's not up to me, so there I was in Wal-mart, pushing my cart, minding my own business, except for stopping to talk with Charlotte about her eyebrows, waving to my daughter's old pre-K teacher, explaining to someone how to generate a master shopping list from his computer, and saying, "Yes, I know my cart is overfull. I haven't been here in a while." (And my husband always wonders why it takes me so long.)


I could have finished much sooner, except he called me four separate times on my cell. Once to remind me to get the AA batteries, once to tell me never mind about the 2" paintbrush, once to try to sell me on checking out the Manager's Specials aisle, and once to engage me in a half public conversation about our son's little problem.


But what you want to know is the thing that really, really, really, really irks me.


What gets me riled, burns me up, sets me off, boils my blood, is seeing shelves packed to the hilt with school supplies, in JULY! JULY! It's diabolical. Evil. Completely unacceptable to remind us of the inevitable before we're good and ready to consider it again.


My gosh, at least wait until my ears quit ringing from the fireworks.

Grits Cookies

Cooking is not my forte. My kids call my kitchen "Mama's Smokin' Restaurant." And although a real, actual fire (not one I will admit to, anyway) has ever broken out, I have on many occasions stood over the kitchen sink with a butter knife scraping the surface of blackened toast. My husband blames it on ADD (Aimlessly Dawdling Disorder), so he cooks a good deal. Just goes to show how well things work out, in the end.

Nevertheless, I sometimes, against the better judgement of others, make up my mind to whip up an amazing culinary delight. It always excites my ever optimistic children to see what I will desecrate next. Yesterday, it was the all-American chocolate chip cookie; because of course I can make a good thing better.

I decided I could elevate the chocolate chip cookie to a whole new level by giving it a southern twist - grits. In my mind, where everything is as blissful as a Christmas Carol, the fresh baked cookies steamed with the aroma of homemade oatmeal desserts, minus the befoulment by raisins. Completely sucked into my self-delusional fantasy, I stood in the grocery aisle faced with a momentous decision - exactly what type of grits should I use?

Instant or regular? Whole or cracked? White or yellow? Impulsively, I bought every kind displayed. The cashier eyeballed me with a sideways glance, but seeing the feverish focus in my face, made a wise choice not to comment.

At home, whipping up my secret recipe sure to win me the blue ribbon at the state fair, I had a new dilemma. In what form should I add the grits? Cooked or dry? Runny and hot or cold and clumped? I can't tell you exactly what I did, mostly because it was sort of a combo of all of the above and I didn't write it down.

Finally, I pulled a batch from the oven, scraped the black edges off and fed them to my four lab rats, who, oddly enough, feigned joy at receiving my gift. Standing back so as not to pressure the critics, I watched them chew. And chew. And chew. And chew.

At last, the six year old's lips parted. I waited with bated breath. She bent her head into her palm held close to her mouth. Oh no, I thought and grabbed the trashcan. But then she lifted her head, grinned, and held out her hand. "They're a little bit crunchy, Mama," she said, handing me her front tooth.

Back to the mixing bowl.

Germ Repellent

I think babies come with germ repellent built in, like those shirts in mail order catalogues that repel mosquitoes. It's part of the birth package. How else can we explain how they can go around putting everything in their mouths, from rancid Cheerios that rolled under the refrigerator in 1999 to unsanitized shopping cart handles that have been in play for the better part of the last five years. If I put my mouth on the shopping cart handle three things would happen: 1) I would get thrown out of the grocery store, 2) I would contract a horrible disease like hepatitis or tuberculosis, and 3) The store manager would immediately sanitize the cart handle.

My daughter, during the potty training years, loved public restrooms; still does. At age 2, nothing said, make my mother convulse, quite like running her fingers along the edge of the porcelain toilet bowl or getting on the floor on all fours to peer under stall doors. Running with a cascaded strip of toilet paper, looping out of the trashcan, made her giggle like a banshee, while I, on the other hand, sounded the alarm: Eewww, stop that. That's gross. Put it back in there. Wash your hands, again; to which more elation erupts.

Thankfully (or maybe not), like those mosquito repellent shirts, the germ shield, after so many baths, washes off. My daughter, now six, and a complete success of my masterful conditioning through exaggerated repulsion and squeals of disgust, is finally getting it that public restrooms are no place for learning braille.

Look out Red Hat Ladies

After thinking about the diving granny more, it occurs to me that the Red Hat Ladies have nothing on her. They certainly aren't wearing red hats with their bathing suits. And it doesn't take too much courage to wear a purple dress to lunch.

But a diving granny, well, you never know what she might do next. She's unpredictable, out on a limb, risky, adventurous. She's who we all want to be when we get old, not a woman who dresses ridiculously for shock value.

Grandmothers Come in All Forms

My children are at the pool right now with my mother. They haven't quite reached the age, yet, when they have good sense enough to be embarrassed by us adults. They still see the world through chlorine induced rainbows around lamp posts. So, it doesn't bother them that their 62 year-old Poppy still wears a bathing suit in public. It doesn't phase them that she swims, gets her hair wet, and lets it air dry. And they haven't seemed to notice everyone nudging each other and whispering, "Look, here comes the diving granny."

All eyes, hidden behind sunglasses and visors, rivet on the diving granny as she peels off her baseball cap, steps out of her shorts, approaches the side of the pool, swings her arms down by her side, then up over her head, and . . . swoosh, gracefully swoops under the water, head first. She surfaces with her grayish-blondish hair plastered to her head.

Secretly, the moms, with fresh manicures and styled hair, who infrequently enter the pool, and when they do walk gingerly, avoiding splashes and pushing the water out of the way with their fingertips, watch. In their hearts, they cheer her on for her bravery. Because, of course, we all want the courage to be diving grannies, too, someday!