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:

It's All Luck

A woman e-mailed me today asking, "Is it all just dumb luck? I mean, I see so many people in the media who are stupider than the schwa key on my computer keyboard, but for some reason there they are, famous, with the eyes of the world upon them. Meanwhile, truly talented folks like myself wait tables, re-shelve library books, or nanny children, while waiting to be discovered. I'm a really good writer. Lots of people have told me so. I've been assured that I have plenty of talent."

For a moment I paused, wondering if I had been insulted. Is she implying that I'm the equivalent of a schwa? Useless, stupid, but still hanging around because someone else hasn't been discovered, and, thus, hasn't yet replaced me? Then, I quelled my self-doubt long enough to respond to her query:

Dear Ma'am,
A couple of years ago sitting in the hair salon hot seat, otherwise known as "under the dryer," I read a magazine article about successful women and how they achieved it. One woman interviewed said that everything she accomplished in life was due to luck, all luck, that she created. She did everything she could to put herself in the right place at the right time so that luck would come her way. Yes, it is all luck, but anyone can have what you refer to as dumb luck, with enough persistence.

After I hit the SEND button, I decided that I had been insulted and I carried on a monologue with my computer screen as an audience, the e-mail question still staring me down. And I asked the lady, "Ever watch American Idol auditions? All those people traipsing through, crooning their hearts out for the judges, bragging that they each will be THE next American Idol? When those contestants come out of that room crying because Randy, Paula, and Simon said they didn't make it, what do they always insist on? Yes! They tell Ryan Seacrest, 'I can sing. Everyone tells me I can. When I sing in public, people crowd around me and they stare. I'm good. Those judges just don't know what they're talking about.' Sound familiar? Don't let your family and friends fool you."

As my hand hovered to close the e-mail, that nagging voice of self-doubt broke in. What if my friends and family have been lying to me, too? Praising me just to make me feel good? Saying something nice only because it was better than not saying anything at all?

Guess I'll have to go out and create more dumb luck for myself.

The New Faux Pas

Back in Mama T's day, that's my late grandmother, smoking and walking was about the tackiest thing a woman could do. Going in public without lipstick ran a close second. Unlike the lipstick oversight, in which unkempt lips was the real error of her ways, in the walking and smoking travesty smoking had nothing to do with the transgression.

A woman could sit and smoke until her lungs fell out and she croaked like a midnight catfish and not a soul would bat an eye. A woman could chat on the party line and inhale enough creosote to pave a road from Georgia to Montana and no one would think the lesser of her. She could even drive carpool with the windows rolled up and her children choking pneumatically in the rear seat and who in the world would dare accuse her of behaving un-ladylike.

But as soon as she began the long, unvirtuous walk from her car to the doors of the grocery store with a tobacco stick dangling from her lip or squeezed between two fingers with painted over yellowed nails, the Junior League president would be on the phone with the Garden Club president. Her UDC and DAR ribbons would be stripped from her lapel, and she would never again be asked to make her lemon squares for the UMW bake sale the Sunday after Easter.

Of course, now that smoking itself has fallen out of favor and walking has gained great strides in the health and fitness world, we've had to search high and low for a way to distinguish quality folks from the undesirables. But sitting on Charlotte's front porch swing on Tuesday, I figured it out, the standard we've been missing. Some savvy socialites already apply it, but they've jumped ahead of the curve.

The new litmus test for judging character and self-worth is where people park their cars when they get home from a long day at the grind stone. Front yard parkers, who leave their cars on lawn or dirt (same as putting the car on blocks as far as their neighbors are concerned, even if the car is a Jaguar) for all the world to see, couldn't get an invitation to join the Colonial Dames if they descended straight from the Jamestown settlers.

A proper lady tucks her car at the rear of her domicile and enters through the backdoor, so that her premises will appear undisturbed, pristine, and desolate, just as a realtor or HGTV host would have it. She will never mar the beauty of her home by sitting on the front porch, allowing her pets to frolic in the front yard, or letting her children toss a ball where someone might see. No one wants to view an old lady tottering to her front door or sprawled on the steps with a broken hip. It's uncouth. Folks simply can't bear to watch a young mother tote groceries into the house. How degrading.

Walking and smoking no longer the downfall of genteel living, it's the misparked car that will bring civilization to a hallelujah-halt in the south. Untinted lips, however, still run a close second.

Living Fearlessly

"With hair like that, you oughta have more fun," my husband whistled Friday evening, when I came through the door. I had just been to my strategically planned, 6 weeks in advance, downplay-the-gray hair appointment. I looked in the hall mirror. "Oh my gosh," I whispered. "He's right. I should have more fun."

My hairdresser had left me a little long baking under the dryer. What appeared honey-wheat colored under the low lights of the salon now revealed itself to be popcorn blond - the shade of "more fun."

This morning I woke up (thank goodness) and I knew (finally) my New Year's Resolution. I've decided to live fearlessly, starting today. That means not simply existing from moment to moment, drifting wherever life takes me, but choosing my moments, driving my time, taking some risks, having more fun.

I started this afternoon by taking back a room in my house given over to laundry, storage, and clutter. I've avoided cleaning out the room because I didn't want to make decisions about the stuff. I didn't think I could ever get to the bottom of the pile. I agonized: What would be the point of the project, anyway? Why engage in an exercise of futility?

Good things are happening, though. Tonight, my city trashcan is full, I can see the floor, one of my children surprisingly hugged me and thanked me for my effort. And my husband has agreed that we will plunge forward and turn the space into a private den for the two of us, a love nest. Our own escape from the world.

One day down, the rest of the year to go, and tomorrow's Monday - a true test of my resolve. I have to go to work with my hair the hue of hand lotion. But I'm sticking with it, living fearlessly, even though I'm scared to death. The good thing is, since it took me three months to figure out my resolution, I only have nine months left to lose heart and break it. And, since most people have already dumped their resolutions by March, I'm ahead of the game.

Parental Malpractice

“What’s malpractice?” asked my 10 year-old at dinner tonight.

After I explained it, he asked, “Can you sue your parents for malpractice?”

“What!” I exclaimed, offended. Sure, I’m not perfect, but have the last ten years been that bad? Anyone can clearly see he hasn’t a physical ailment to his name, so I suppose he wants restitution on the grounds of mental anguish and irreversible trauma. Would he let the potty training grudge go, already?

Seeing my look of concern and dread, he supplied, “I’m writing a report on it for school,” as if that made me feel any better.

“Well, you didn’t come with the best instructions,” I retorted.

If I were a member of a grand book club like READ, EAT, AND BE MERRY!, I would have known right off, probably, that my son was talking about the book, Can You Sue Your Parents for Malpractice?, by Paula Danziger. Lucky for me, the ladies didn’t hold it against me the way I held it against my son. They welcomed me right in last night for a fabulous evening of book talk, mostly about If Mama Don’t Laugh, It Ain’t Funny. I appreciate all of their wit, enthusiasm, humor, and questions. In fact, I picked up that “instructions” comment I directed at my child from one of the members. I hope she doesn’t mind that I found a use for it right away.

Thanks girls! It was a pleasure and a privilege.

(Lucy Adams is a syndicated columnist and the author of If Mama Don’t Laugh, It Ain’t Funny. She lives in Georgia with her husband and their four children.)

Third Tuesday Book Club

Thank you to the members of the THIRD TUESDAY BOOK CLUB for a wonderful evening this past Tuesday. Such gracious hostesses, they immediately welcomed me in and put me at ease (Of course the glass of red wine helped, too). We enjoyed a divine evening of laughter and sharing stories, as I read from and we discussed my book, IF MAMA DON’T LAUGH, IT AIN’T FUNNY. I always find it interesting how every life has a different course, but the individuals maneuvering through the obstacles are so much the same. And to top off our merriment, one lady reached into her purse to get her keys and pulled out a half eaten, stale bagel wrapped in a napkin; a reminder of a hectic morning with children. How classic is that? Thanks girls!

(Join Lucy Adams this Saturday, 2p.m., at Barnes & Noble (Augusta, GA) on Augusta West Parkway, where she will sign copies of her book, If Mama Don’t Laugh, It Ain’t Funny.)

Guide to Estonia

Costa Rica (2/12) - All I wanted to do was flop around on my lounge chair, turning over from time to time to make sure I was evenly baked on both sides. The biggest excitement we had experienced since our plane landed was a wild Iguana creeping under my husband's chaise, turning over his drink, and steeling the cherry out of it.

But a Tico convinced two lazy Gringos to try an eco-tour. He recomended the night excursion out to a deserted beach to watch sea turtles lay their eggs. That evening, we, along with about 30 tourists, ranging in color from light red to bright red, gathered in a small hut by a shallow lagoon and recieved our instructions.

So thirty trusting Gringos without flashlights followed five men, whose English we could barely understand, into an inky dark night. We chugged across the lagoon in a small boat with no life jackets. We walked down a desolate mile strip of beach. They herded us into a corale equipped with crude wooden benches. They left us there in the dark.

One big-mouthed, know-it-all, neighbor from the north kept the air stirred with his constant expert exhortations on our mission. He had participated the night before. He even assured one traveler, whom he accosted, wanting to know her homeland, then responding to her in Spanish once she told him, that he was well aware that Estonia is located in Europe. "We don't speak Spanish there," she admonished him and turned away.

After an hour of listening to the guy drone on like a diesel truck, and jumping to our feet every time we thought we saw a flashlight flickering in our direction, hoping this would be the moment, my husband and I decided to explore. Beyond the gate to the beach, in the middle of sandy, roadless terrain we found a bar, stcoked and open for business. Very odd in a Twilight Zone sort of way.

We walked back to the holding area. Still dark. Still no word from our "guides," whom, as the hours wore on, I began to think of as captors. We had no light, except that from the bar, and no way to leave, except to swim. Trapped. I nearly lost my mind.

Finally, a "guide" returned. In a thick accent he explained there were no sea turtles for us to view. We must leave. And he took off at a quick clip, back toward the boat, flashlight extinguished. By the time it registered that we were to follow, he was ahead by the length of a football field. Instead of guiding us, he did his best to disappear.

Suddenly, we bumped into the back of him, still in the pitch black. He then yelled for us to stop, turned on his flashlight, and pointed out a lone baby turtle scrambling toward the water. He must have spotted it with his infrared eyes, because there was no light from the moon. It had dipped below the horizon long before.

Our loud turtle expert in residence, the Yankee (hate to say it, but he was), dropped down on his knees and told us all to stand back. He knew what he was doing. He had attended the night prior, when they also saw no nesting turtles. Blah, blah, blah. I wanted to remind him this was an eco-tour, not an ego-tour, but my husband pinched me when I started to say it.

I wanted to tell the guy that there are no single hatchlings, that these were not the alleged nesting grounds, and that the "guide" had ditched us so he could sneak and drop that turtle out of his pocket to give us all a cheap thrill. I wanted to, in my sassiest voice, inform him that he had foolishly, not once, but twice, paid $40 to get dragged on a Costa Rican Snipe Hunt.

And I desperately wanted to hold up a map of Europe and have him locate Estonia on it.