The Mother Load

Published January 19, 2002
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

(Author's note: Since I'm now working for an actual, bona fide, real life home office, I thought I'd take a trip down memory lane to see how the same prospect affected me 8 years ago.)

With the birth of my fourth child drawing near, I have home and hearth forever on my mind.  As I plunge headfirst into infant care once again, I find myself at odds with my situation.  With a professional license firmly in hand and my feet barely wet in what could prove to be a lucrative and rewarding career, I find myself feeling ever more nervous about the coming battle between bringing up baby and bringing home the bacon.

Truth be told, if we didn't need my extra income to pay the bills, I would give up working in a second to stay at home and focus on being a champion wife and mother.  However, since my husband has not been offered the six figure income he so richly deserves, I am forced to make do.  But don't cry for me, St. George!  I think I may have found the solution in a growing trend.  I'm talking about the "Home Office."

After an extensive search of at least one magazine, I have learned what the experts say I need to succeed.

- Create a seperate office space.  Ok, we may have a problem here.  I love my home, but it's not exactly overflowing with unused space.  My work-at-night spouse has given me a firm no to moving the waterbed into the family room, so I guess my bedroom is out of the question.  And cramming all the kids into one room isn't exactly what I had in mindm either.  I guess I can always look into toilet telecommuting.

- Dress the part.  From what I read, the fantasy of working in your pajamas should be just that: a fantasy.  A professional should dress professionally at the corporate office as well as at the home office.  Ok by me, as long as it's understood that at Sarah Wilson, Inc., the corporate dress code requires nursing tops, baggy pants, and no less than one spit up stain per article of clothing.

- Purchase the right equipment. I think they're talking about a fax machine, copier, scanner, etc. I can see where those might come in handy.  But as long as there's a professional print shop around the corner, I think I'll spend my capital on equipment that will really matter in my home office: a vibrating bouncy seat, and infant swing, and every Blues Clues video ever produced.

- Write off EVERYTHING. Now we're talking.  I had already planned on deducting my cell phone, mileage, and licensing expenses from my gross income this year, but apparently, a home office is a veritable gold mine when it comes to tax advantages.  The mortgage, electricity, even the chores you pay your kids to do are all potential possibilities.  Hmm...I'll definitely have to consider giving my husband a raise for all those wonderful back massages.  Either that, or I'll have to offer him a great dental plan.

Though a home office isn't quite the paradise I might have previously thought it to be, I'm still excited at the prospect of making some extra money while watching my children grow up.  For a busy but guilt obsessed mom, it may be just what the doctor ordered.  And if after a few months, I find that marketing my business, chasing after clients, and wrestling with the demands of four children under six turn out to be more than I bargained for, I can take comfort in one very important fact.

I can always write off my therapy expenses. 

Published July 8, 2006
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

(Author's note: I don't know what miracle made emails from 2006 suddenly available in my hotmail inbox, but there they are.  I have found a few columns I thought I had lost and will be getting them up on the blog this weekend!  Here's one from July 2006 for your reading pleasure.)

People often ask how I come up with ideas for my column every week. My answer is the same each time. I get my ideas from life...from grand events to something as insignificant as a word said in a conversation.


Yesterday, life took me on a shopping trip to the grocery store, five rambunctious kids in tow, so here you have the metaphorical fruit of that trip. (The literal fruit is in the fridge).

Shopping with five kids under the age of ten is... There are so many obvious and obligatory endings to that sentence. Chaos? Pandemonium? Never boring? Good exercise? Grounds for a police action? It's an adventure, anyway.

Let the record show that I have five kids. I planned to have five kids, and I'm happy to have five kids. I wouldn't trade them for the world. I just thought by the time I had five, I'd be rich and famous and have a crack team of personal assistants to do all my shopping for me.

To illustrate: Shopping trips tend to follow the same pattern. I write a menu and a list, getting valuable feedback like, "McDonald's!" and "Candy!" from the kids. I remind everyone to make their last minute trips to the bathroom and we're off.

Once we've reached the parking lot, it's time for a quick going over of the Wilson Family rules of shopping. 1) Stay together. 2) No begging. 3) No whining. 4) No lying down on the floor and refusing to move. 6) No smacking your sister with pilfered fruit from the cart. 7) If you have money for vending machines, you can spend it AFTER we're ALL finished. 8) If you don't have money, you should get a job...no, I don't care that you're only 4.

And then we're off...or more appropriately, THEY'RE off. Two seconds after hearing the vending machine rule, my kids scatter for the vending machines until I haul them back to the cart. We then proceed down the aisles, five little voices begging and whining for this cereal and that fruit snack. At some point, someone is on the the floor, refusing to move. It's not long before a wayward piece of fruit is sailing toward someone's head.

Just when I feel like I'm getting things under control, one of them starts the dance. You know the one. Legs crossed, hopping from one foot to the next, dancing along to the beat of, "Gotta go potteeeeeeeeeee!" And like a rapidly incubating strain of some foreign plague, it spreads until every non diaper wearing Wilson is in an extreme state of bladder distress.

On a good day, we finish in under three hours, I manage to keep all the kids in the same checkout lane, and we get home with everything we've purchased. In the non summer months when the pavement isn't capable of searing my lips right off my face, I kiss the ground in front of my home and praise the Lord above that I have another two weeks before I have to do it again.
That's about the time I realize I forgot to buy the light bulbs.

I didn't post my weekly column last week because I was too busy lying around in a food induced daze (it's hard work, people!).  So, here's a column from 2001 to get you ready for Christmas shopping at the thrift store. :)

Published January 20, 2001
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

I have a confession to make.  I am shopper.  I feel a certain thrill whenever I venture out in search of that perfect something.  I've come to believe it's the prehistoric "gatherer"instinct in me.  It's in my genes.  My mother is a shopping goddess, and as much as I hate to admit it sometimes, I am just like my mother.

This leads me to my second confession:  I am very, very cheap.  If I can't get it on sale, I don't want to buy it.  I refuse to buy anything new if I can find the same item used.  And at least one Saturday a month is spent in search of yard sale bargains that I can proudly display to friends and family.  And believe me, I do wear this skill like a badge of honor.

Being a benevolent person by nature, I have decided to impart this great wisdom on you, my adoring public.  I have compiled a list of rules and strategies which I am offering today only in what I'm affectionately calling the "JUNK SALE JUNKIE SALE OF THE CENTURY!!!"  I pondered calling it the sale of the millennium, but that would be excessive, don't you think?

RULE #1: Every yard sale deserves a second look.
Maybe you think you can tell from a perfunctory curbside glance whether or not a yard sale will yield your next treasure, but this is simply untrue.  Sure, those orange dresses, circa 1970, are a powerful repellant to most inexperienced garage sale shoppers, but they may be hiding a Giorgio Armani original...or at least a great Halloween costume.

RULE #2: The early bird gets the dirty looks.
Do no, I repeat, do not show up to a yard sale before the advertised opening time.  You need the sellers to be your allies, and this is the easiest way to make them your enemies.  So, just don't do it!

RULE #3: Haggle, haggle, haggle!
Let's face it, folks, this is used stuff...as in, somebody has already worn it, slept on it, read it, or otherwise USED it.  The price is always negotiable, and anyone holding a yard sale who believes differently has no business in the business.  Even if you only manage to reduce the price by 10 cents, that's 10 more cents to spend as you see fit.  That romance novel on the book table isn't looking so out of reach now, is it?

RULE #4: When it comes to thrift stores, time is your new best friend.
When you head out to a thrift store, make it an event.  Wear comfortable shoes, pack provisions, and plan to spend a minimum of one hour.  You absolutely cannot afford to miss a good deal, so you're going to have to spend some time at each rack. As you become more practiced at this, you'll be able to whip past polyester pantsuits without so much as a second glance until you come upon the perfect find.

RULE #5: If all else fails, Go West!
Now, I'm all for shoping in my community and helping the local economy, but there are some things that simply can't be found in the Southern Utah area.  Chalk it up to the prevailing values of industry and frugality.  People here just don't seem to shop frivolously, which means their yard sales won't turn up that outrageously expensive item you've been craving.  A quarterly pilgrimage to that great yard sale Mecca is definitely in order.  Can you say, "Las Vegas?"  Believe me, that autographed  Velvet Elvis will more than make up for the gas.

Now that you're all educated in the intricacies of second hand shopping, I urge you to go out and put your newfound skills to good use.  Get out there!  Find those bargains!  Slay that shopping dragon!

What? You're low on funds because you overdid it during the holidays?  Hmmmm...maybe you could hold a yard sale.

*Author's note: I'm officially on vacation (no staycations for me!) today, so instead of writing up a new column, which would be work, I'm treating you all to two of my old favorites. The first is the column that got me the job, the first edition of Mother Load published in the St. George Spectrum. The second is the third edition, published a month later. It's one of my all time favorites. Enjoy!

Mom Looking for Replacement Parts
Published December 9, 2000
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

I recently heard of a couple who gave birth to a child conceived to provide a bone marrow transplant for a sibling. Apparently, the parents were able to test several embryos until they found the embryo with the winning genetic material. This, of course, immediately gave rise to discussions of the ethics of so-called "designer babies," as well as humans being manufactured to provide needed replacement parts.

Now, I don't know about you; but I just don't see what the big deal is. Being the mother of three children under the age of four, I'd love to make a wish list of replacement parts. I'd even like a few additions!

I think the first thing I'd have to replace would be my mind. Nearly four long years of baby talk, silly songs, and Nick Jr. have, unfortunately, left me a babbling idiot when it comes to adult conversation. A friend asked the other day if I was following the current debate on the floor of the House, and I blurted out that if the Bear wants to live in a Big Blue House, it ought to have a big blue floor.

Sanity aside, I don't know what I would love more than a new tummy, since I seem to have misplaced the old one. My greatest joy in life has become making it through a day without someone asking me when I'm due. On the other hand, I can't discredit the advantages of people thinking I'm expecting. I always get a seat in a crowded room.

Also up for replacement would have to be my chest. Now, every true blue La Leche leaguer can extol the virtues of nursing your babies and give you every scientific reason it's the best thing going. But how many actually let eager moms-to-be know that once the nursing stops...the chest drops? It's a secret no one wants to tell you, although I'm quite sure the formula manufacturers could double their annual profits by adding that little tidbit to their commercials.

As for parts I'd like to just add to my body, I'd put a special valve for my nostrils at the top of my list. You know, one that opens up for good smells such as home-baked bread and chocolate chip cookies, and locks down tight against the bad ones such as dirty diapers. Let's face it, folks; that wonderful new baby smell quickly gives way to something akin to rancid refried beans.

And what busy mom wouldn't love an extra pair of arms? Okay, it's cliche, but can you blame me? Two arms...three kids...you do the math.

And I don't think I'm alone when I express my feelings of utter betrayal that becoming a mom did not automatically equip me with eyes in the back of my head, as my mother so convincingly lead me to believe. What a farce! I wonder how many women have become grandmothers by promoting this myth.

Perusing my wish list has lead me to one obvious conclusion. Forget replacement parts! I need a clone! Unfortunately, the U.S. government, among others, is still under the twisted opinion that human cloning is unethical and should be banned. I don't think I have to tell you the ratio of men to women in the House and Senate.

In light of this pertinent information, I suppose it's time to admit that I dream in vain. The ethicists will, undoubtedly, prevail. They usually do. I'll have to settle for what the good Lord has seen fit to provide me.

And I guess there's always my sweetheart to consider: my darling husband. He's good for an arm or two...on occasion. And when he's actually got his eyes off the TV or out of a book, they can be quite useful. On the average, husbands are as good as any clone, despite their lack of mammary glands.

Mammary glands! Now, there's a replacement part HE could use...
___________________________________________________


Published January 6, 2001
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

My husband and I recently attended a holiday dinner at our church. We shared our table with three other married couple in various stages of matrimony. From newlyweds expecting their first child to a couple married for more than 20 years, we were certainly a diverse group.

We had an enjoyable evening with no lack of good conversation. The men compared jobs and talked sports while the women of the group stayed to the usual topic: childbirth.

Thinking back, I had to ponder...Why does every group of women I am in inevitably land on the same topic of conversation? Do we really have nothing better to chat about? No matter how the conversation begins, the flow of words almost always heads in the same direction. At some point, the baby battle stories will begin.

For most veteran moms, this is neither a surprise nor a problem. But first timers beware! I can't imagine how normally thoughtful women can drag a newly pregnant and completely unsuspecting mom-to-be through such a terror fest. And young first timers are veritable magnets for women with the absolute worst childbirth tales.

"Oh me? I was in labor for three solid days! They finally had to just cut me open and rip that kid right out of my abdomen!"

"You think that was bad! I had to have over 75 stitches and couldn't sit down for a month!"

"Well, my anesthesiologist was out of town, so no epidural for me. I think they could hear me screaming all the way to X-ray."

Of course, there's one obvious reason for all this mommy one-upmanship. This was battle! I want you to see my scars...metaphorically speaking, of course. But the version of any childbirth tale you might hear will, invariably, differ from any other, because among these war-torn troops, there are three distinct subgroups.

My personal favorite group, of which I am a card-carrying member, are the "holier than thous." We're those natural childbirth advocates, those firm believers that drugs and doctors have their places...far away. We can't get enough of telling our stories to our wimpy sisters in trial. And the stories get better with every telling. Really, what's the point of going through natural childbirth if you can't feel superior about it?!

In direct contrast to my high and mighty comrades are the "interventionists." They're the ones most likely to say, "Are you NUTS?!" when you tell them you're even considering a drug free birth. I have a good friend in this group. I think she gets the epidural hooked up at about 8 months into her pregnancy. These women have an inherent trust in their doctors' advice and never question their orders...except when it comes to turning off the numbing juice. I pity any MD who tries to encourage anything but a drug-induced paralysis.

Finally, there are those women riding the philosophical fence between the "crazies" and the "dazies." I like to call them the "wait and sees." They may attend childbirth classes, but they never really make that decision. Some of the most graphic stories come from this group. They just don't believe it can be that bad, but once they experience it, get out of the way! These women need very little encouragement to head over to the interventionist side for subsequent births, if any.

I guess as long as there are babies being born, there will be mothers recounting all the gory details to mesmerized groups. Wherever a captive audience is found, you're more than likely to hear words like catheter, episiotomy, meconium, and abstinence. We just can't help ourselves. I spent the past weekend determined NOT to do this and ended up talking baby five times in one day!

With that in mind, and knowing that anyone reading this column is, undoubtedly, mesmerized...

Let me tell you a little bit about my 28-hour first labor...

Published September 27, 2009

St. George Spectrum & Daily News

9 years ago, I was a young mother with three children, a silly sense of humor, and a dream. I had a part time job I enjoyed, and life seemed content on the surface. Underneath, however, lived an electric undercurrent of potential. It pricked and poked and sometimes stabbed at me, saying, “You are a writer. You write. Why are you not writing?”
I confessed these feelings to a friend one evening. I told her how I looked at the pages of The Spectrum and knew I should be in there. I felt it with everything that I was. My friend’s response was matter of fact. “What are you waiting for?”

I had many reasons to hesitate. I had some college experience but no degree. I had no professional writing experience. I didn’t know what I would write or why anyone would hire me. In the end, none of that mattered. I was a writer. Why was I not writing? I said the same to the managing editor of The Spectrum, and the rest is history.

I’m trying to imagine what my life for the last 9 years would have been without The Mother Load. I’ve described this column as “fluff” on more than one occasion, downplaying its importance in an effort to hide what it really means to me. The truth is, this column has been my pulse, my life force, my soul on paper. It has been comfort and catharsis and celebration. It was my “barbaric yawp,” and The Spectrum was my rooftop.

If you’re wondering why I’m writing as if this is a last column, it’s because this is a last column. Faced with budget cuts that were abrupt but not unexpected in this economy, my editor let me know last week that The Spectrum would no longer be able to run The Mother Load. I had been anticipating this for a year, watching the trends and wondering when my time would be up. I’m surprised and gratified that they hung on to The Mother Load as long as they did.

I couldn’t leave without expressing appreciation to some very important people. My first editor, Jennifer King, is someone I will always consider a friend. One day, she told me that reading The Mother Load was the highlight of her week. I considered that statement one of the highlights of my life. Two editors followed, Kathryn van Roosendaal and Rachel Glidden. I was privileged to work with them both and thank them for their kindness and professionalism. Managing Editor, Todd Seiffert, has my undying gratitude for believing in me, promoting me, and telling me once that I had, “quite a following.”

Lois Smith, ILIKEU and wish I could tell you what a huge impact you had on my life. Thank you to readers who sent letters and cards to let me know how much they enjoyed reading The Mother Load each week. Thank you, especially, to a couple of anonymous readers who sent a card of thanks and encouragement and an anonymous gift that came at just the right time.

To my ex-husband, Aaron Wilson: thank you for supporting and encouraging me through the early years and for making me a mother five times over. To my husband, Richard Clark: no one gets my humor like you do. Thank you for every appreciative guffaw, for every proud declaration of, “That’s MY wife!” and for understanding what it means to love words like flabbergasted and surreptitious and facetiously.

More than anything, I’d like to thank my five children, without whom this column would not exist. The “load” of motherhood is, at times, heavy and demanding. It’s a load I’m blessed and privileged to bear. My kids remind me that there is beauty and hope in the world and that dreams are attainable if I just believe. Ray, Miriam, Cate, Evelyn, and Michael, you are my heroes.

While this will be the last edition of The Mother Load in the Spectrum, it will not be the last edition of The Mother Load. I could no more stop breathing than stop writing this column. The venue may change, but The Mother Load will live on, shifting from humor column to humor blog. Check it out at http://www.themotherloadhome.blogspot.com. There’s not much to see today, but you’ll soon have access to new weekly editions, past favorites, and some other funny features I’m developing.

Thanks again. It’s been a phenomenal run.

Published September 20, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

We’re halfway through September and adjusting to the routine of fall. Everyone has settled into school and the back to school bug has settled into my head and lungs.

I do this every year. It starts in my pharynx, that space in your head that connects your mouth to your nose. It’s the place congestion loves to live and from which normal people, ahem, “hock” the offensive junk out of their bodies.

I wish I knew how to do that. It would make my life a lot easier. I’ve tried it on numerous occasions and had caring friends demonstrate. Alas, I am missing the hock gene. Without this ability, I suffer as the gunk gets more and more impacted until I’m ready to shove a metal hook past my tonsils and scrape it out of my head. I’m always saved from the task when the crud migrates south for winter and builds a vacation resort in my lungs.

I’m sorry if my description disgusts you. Sick people are fairly lacking in tact. And couth. I have neither the energy or the time to care about either. Next week, I’ll write a happy, non-disgusting column. For now, my life is all about phlegm…snot…boogers…great, green, chunky lung nuggets that get caught in my windpipe and threaten to choke the life right out of me.

Maybe I have swine flu. I wonder what I would do if I did have swine flu. The guidelines change from day to day, so I’m not aware if I’m supposed to let the health department know or if I’m good to treat it like any old bug, metal hook at the ready, grumpy voice at full volume, and tact and couth tied up for the ride.

When we first started hearing about the swine flu pandemic, news reports brought to mind scary guys in hazmat suits, mass quarantines, and a possible end of life as we know it. It seemed like only a matter of time until people started chanting (behind protective masks, of course), “There but by the grace of hand sanitizer go I.” While swine flu remains a threat, it’s certainly not the crazy, scary, duck-and-cover emergency the press made it out to be.

I think the swine flu health guidelines are like the terror alert system. They change almost arbitrarily. They don’t really tell us anything. They keep airline passengers from enjoying their expensive, amenity-free hurtle through the friendly skies. Eventually, they become white noise in the background of life.

Today’s terror alert is yellow. I believe that means our chances of being attacked by terrorists are about the same as being trampled by coughing and sneezing pigs, so we should all patriotically go about the business of being terrified…and wash our hands and avoid kissing schoolchildren.

If I actually have swine flu and die from it, I’ll feel really bad about making light of a serious subject. Okay, that’s not entirely true. If that happens, I won’t feel anything, because I’ll be dead. It’s more accurate to say that if I die from swine flu, my family will feel really bad that I made light of it. “If only she’d washed her hands more frequently,” they’ll say. “If only she’d ducked when the man at the grocery store coughed into her shirt instead of his. If only she hadn’t angered the gods with her flippant talk of phlegm.”

If I do die, I’d like to be remembered as someone who changed the lives of others, if only by introducing the phrase, “great, green, chunky lung nuggets,” into the vernacular. Bury me with this edition of The Mother Load on my chest, an American flag on my coffin, and a metal hook implanted in my pharynx.

And I’d like the terror alert level changed to green.

Published September 13, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

“Butterfly in the sky…I can go twice as high…” If you’re my age or younger or you have a child who is my age or younger, you’re probably quietly singing, “Take a look! It’s in a book! A Reading Rainbow!” and remembering quality time spent with this beloved PBS show. Can you believe that show’s been on the air since I was six? Of course you can because it’s amazing.

Well, it was.

If you hadn’t already heard, I’m very sorry to let you know that Reading Rainbow is no more. A victim of budget cuts, Reading Rainbow aired it’s final show just over a week ago, ending its 26 year run on public television. I heard the news from the man himself, host LeVar Burton, in an interview he gave on public radio. The news had me sobbing all the way to work.

There are many things in this world that can bring me to tears. By many, I mean most. I cry whenever I pass a tough test. I cry every time one of my children performs on stage. I weep regularly over the vast number of Americans who don’t know the difference between “you’re” and “your.” I was not prepared to grieve this passionately over a TV show I haven’t watched in years.

As I listened to callers express heartfelt expressions of appreciation for Mr. Burton’s work and share their favorite episodes of the show, my own favorite came quickly to mind. I see LeVar Burton decked out in specialized gear, standing outside the entrance to a cave with the episode’s designated expert. He smilingly informs my younger self that exploring caves is called, “Spelunking,” then turns eagerly to enter. I am rapt. Spelunking. What an amazing word.

Any true collector of favorite words can tell you the word that started it all, and there was mine. Of all the ways to express the act of exploring a cave, someone had chosen this exquisite word. I took it as a gift and have treasured it since. I’ve been spelunking a time or too, and I still can’t tell you if I receive more enjoyment from the act of spelunking or the fact that I can say I’ve been spelunking. Either way, every time I think of the word, I think of the episode of Reading Rainbow and know the show helped to plot the course of my life. I became a reader, an avid one, and a lover of amazing words.

I originally intended to write a comical “Save Reading Rainbow” column, but my reverence for the show forestalls most attempts at levity. Reading Rainbow had a profound impact on my life as I’m sure it did on yours. The people behind it understood the great importance of reading and created a generation of youngsters who still value books today.

To all the people at the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, the producers, directors, cast and crew of Reading Rainbow, I offer my thanks for a job well done. To LeVar Burton, you have my gratitude for years of dedicated service to the cause of literacy and for a favorite word that changed my life. Your show will be sorely missed.

But you don’t have to take my word for it.

Published September 6, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

In a recent family meeting, my 12 year old son raised an issue, asking whether we felt comfortable dropping him and his sisters, aged 9 and 10, off at the movie theater to watch a show sans parents. Fighting my nearly overwhelming desire to answer with a knee-jerk response of, “You’ll go to movies on your own when your kids are out of the house,” I tabled the issue pending a survey of aunts and uncles with kids older than ours.

As I’ve spent time deliberating, I’ve found myself watching the pendulum swing back and forth from “overprotective” to “just plain nuts” more than once, hoping to find a “sounds reasonable” somewhere in the middle.

I wonder if this process was much the same for the parents of Laura Dekker, the 13 year old Dutch girl who wants to sail around the world by herself for the next two years. I don’t know the Dekkers, but I imagine they watched the same pendulum swing, though I’m assuming theirs only swings between “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” and, “WHAT?!” with nary a, “Maybe it would be okay, if …” in between.

I’ve been watching the case closely, assuming these parents made their decision thoughtfully and wanting to avoid some of the thought processes they might have used. It’s easy for me (and every other rational human being in the world) to look at this family and say, “Hellooooo. This is a really dumb idea.” But if you’re the parent, are you going to see it that way? (Okay, well, if you’re you and not them, then yes, you’re going to see it that way, because you would never do this; but if you’re me and the decision is about a movie theater, is it going to be that clear cut?)

According to an interview with her lawyer, she’s been asking for the chance to sail around the world for quite awhile. Hoping to buy themselves time, her parents told her if she managed to get it planned and set up by herself, they’d let her do it. When she came back to them later having done just that, they reported they were stuck. (This is also exactly why I have made no such deals with Ray.) That’s a classic parenting mistake. When you make a deal with your child hoping their immaturity will give you an out, the correct response when they surprise you is to plead ignorance and buy them something. Does Laura have a Wii? I hear they’re fun.

According to reports, Laura’s father then told her if she could sail to England by herself without any problems, he would feel good about her sailing around the world. Apparently, when she was detained by British authorities who called and demanded he accompany her back to Holland, he did not see this as a problem. I could send my kids in to the theater on a test run to buy popcorn and drinks, but if the manager called me to remove them, I don’t think I’d see it as successful. I’m just saying.

The best advice we’ve gotten so far is to consider allowing the kids to take a cell phone in to the theater with them. That way, if they need me, they can get in touch. Since Laura plans to enroll herself in an online school, I’m assuming she can email her parents daily if she needs anything. Of course, we’re comparing an hour and a half with two years and a number of oceans here. Somehow, I’m not sure it computes.

For now, the issue is on hold. The Dutch courts want a psychological evaluation done to determine whether or not Laura can withstand the emotional rigors of a solo trip like this. Can she handle the isolation? The loneliness? The lack of sociocultural stimuli necessary for adequate emotional development? If they answer yes, her dream will come true and the email updates will begin.

“Dear mom and dad, today I saw three jellyfish, finished up my pre-Algebra homework, got attacked by pirates, and I’m all out of conditioner. Please send cash.”

Published August 30, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

It’s back to school time, and for me, that means back to research. Psychology may be a “soft science,” but it’s science, nonetheless. I’m currently gathering information as I try to decide what research I’d like to conduct in the next couple of years. Here are a few study subjects I’m considering.

Question: What purpose does it serve to place impulse buy items in the “10 Items or Less” checkout lane at the grocery store? I mean, if you have ten items and grab another, you’re no longer eligible to be in that lane.

Hypothesis: Grocery stores put impulse buy items in the “10 Items or Less” lane specifically to cause people to exceed the ten item limit, prompting them to leave the lane and reason, “Well, if I can’t get out of here quickly, and I have no limit on the number of items in my cart, I might as well fill my cart completely.”

Method: I will observe the behavior of shoppers in the Express Lane as they glance impulsively at gum and “As Seen on TV” appliances. I will glare at those who add these items to their carts and exceed the limit. If glaring doesn’t work, I will sigh in exasperation and make a passive aggressive comment to the person behind me. Shoppers who are sufficiently shamed into leaving the lane will be followed and their purchases tracked. This research began in the early 90s and is ongoing. Results are mixed.

Question: Where do all the socks, spoons, shoes, and gloves from my house go after I buy more?

Hypothesis: There are rips in the fabric of space and time which cause small items to be transported to the past and future and cause other small items to be transported into my home from the past and future.

Method: I will take a daily inventory of everything in my home and record all deficits and overages. I will then search family history archives for stories of spoons and ski caps inexplicably turning up in the families of my husband’s pioneer ancestors and give thanks for their good fortune. I will send a postdated letter via Western Union to the future owners of this house and ask them to return all children’s size 10 ½ shoes and socks to 2009. I will also let them know we have their rock collection, TV cords, useless remote controls, and what I believe is a small ray gun.

Question: Does going to class half naked improve your grades in college? I ask this because I see many women dressed this way in the classes I’m taking on campus this semester. Since I’ve managed my 3.9 GPA fully clothed, I can’t imagine less clothing would be to my advantage. (Yes, I know announcing my spectacular GPA is gratuitous and possibly arrogant. I offer no apologies.)

Hypothesis: Showing up to class half naked has a negative effect on grades.

Method: I will attend my classes in tank tops and hot pants for the duration of the semester and record any changes in my GPA. I predict my GPA will fall to 1.7 when I stop attending classes rather than perpetuate a crime on humanity.

Question: What are the long-term emotional effects of having a slow computer?

Hypothesis: Slow computers cause a slow descent into incurable madness.

Method: I will live my life and pray for my family.

Published August 23, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

There’s a new movie out in theaters that I believe no sane person would want to see. It’s titled, “Grace,” and it’s a horror flick that tells the story of a smelly, undead baby that attracts flies and has a thirst for blood. However, the movie is really about the lengths to which Grace’s mother will go to keep her little bundle of terror alive…or undead…or deadlive. I don’t really know how these things work.

I bring this up today because (many thousands of dollars of therapy behind me) I do consider myself a sane person. Somehow, despite this sanity, I have an almost overwhelming desire to fork over eight of my hard earned dollars to see the creepy baby and her crazy, murdering mom on the big screen.

And this is coming from someone who does NOT handle scary movies well. After my first viewing of “The Sixth Sense,” I had to sleep with the lights on for a week. Stephen King’s “It” made me swear off clowns, spiders, and bathroom sinks for much longer than was hygienically sound. I think I actually threw up after watching five minutes of Corpse Bride, and that was a kid movie!

So, if I possess my alleged sanity, and if I already know horror films cause problems up to and including vomiting, why in the world would I even consider watching this movie? The answer is simple. It’s because I’m walking at night again.

Ever since I was 11, I’ve enjoyed walking around outside in the dark all alone. At that age, it was an early morning paper route that had me pounding the pavement around my neighborhood at 5:30 am. As I got older, early morning hours were replaced by late night hours, but my enjoyment was the same. I just like being outside while everyone else in the world is asleep.

Everyone else in the world except the rapists, murderers, drug dealers, and psychotic maniacs, of course. Someone once told me I was very brave to take my late night walks all alone. No doubt this person was thinking of the aforementioned late night dangers. I don’t think bravery is the right concept here. On a scale of one to stupid, it’s downright imbecilic for a lone woman to walk around outside in the middle of the night.

Since the real dangers of this habit don’t seem to phase me in the least, I have resorted to scaring myself in other ways to keep myself safely and responsibly behind lock and key after hours. If I’m not afraid of murderers and muggers, perhaps zombies and vampires will keep me indoors. If I’m not willing to believe the first step in female self defense is to not walk around alone at night, then perhaps the full moon and a healthy fear of werewolves will do the trick.

It seems like “Grace” is my safety fallback this year. Sure, an undead baby isn’t on par with a fully grown vampire or zombie. I hear stinky little Grace isn’t the kind of horror movie baby who can get around on her own. It’s the crazy, devoted mother in the movie that I’m hoping will be enough to induce psychosomatic paralysis by 8 pm every day. After all, this is Utah, and there are devoted mothers of babies on every other block. It’s probable none of those babies only thrive on human blood, but that’s just not a chance I’m willing to take.

I just hope my husband doesn’t mind sleeping with the lights on.

Published August 16, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

A few years ago, I wrote a column about a harrowing, three day standoff between my daughters and me over a messy bedroom. In said column, I stated there was no reward my daughters wanted more than not cleaning their room, and there was no consequence they feared more than cleaning their room. I thought this because I had tried everything I could think of.

Today? Allow me a moment of evil laughter: Muahahahahahahahahaha! (The better to muffle the sound of my hand repeatedly slapping my forehead.) Ladies and gentlemen, I have found it. I have discovered the secret. Incentive, thy name is Taco.

Well, it happened to be Taco a few months ago. Growing weary of the fight over the orderliness of the girls’ bedroom and annoyed with a seven year old who was conscientiously objecting to anything other than coloring, I told her she could pull her weight or find somewhere else to live. She shrugged her shoulders and went outside, followed by her nine year old sister who defected in sisterly solidarity with a very passionate shout of, “She’s just a kid! She can’t take care of herself!” They sat on the front steps of the house for about 15 minutes, discussing orphanages.

And then they smelled the tacos.

I’ve been a mother for nearly 13 years, and I’ve been a good cook for even longer. There’s nothing I love more than to hear my children scurrying to each other with excited cries of, “Mom’s making ________!” Whether I’m frying up tortilla chips or rolling out donuts or baking a batch of my hearty wheat bread, my family is putty in my hands when they smell my cooking.

I think I’ve avoided capitalizing on this love relationship out of some sense of honor, not wanting to sully my culinary creations with the sour taste of exploitation. I…was a moron.

With nary a scruple, I put this newfound knowledge to the test the other day, when a bedroom cleanup that should have taken an hour stretched into six, my girls alternately whining and moving messes around the room. I smiled an evil smile as I piled fruit and ice into my blender and heard my girls erupt into desperate shouting. “Smoothies! HURRY!” The smell of taco meat spurred them into even faster action. That room was finished in ten minutes.

I’ll admit it helps to have a 12 year old who cleans his room in 5 minutes flat in order to avoid missing an undue amount of Playstation time. He prances to their bedroom door and singsongs, “Dinner’s ready. If you don’t get out here soon, I get to eat yours.” At some point in the near future, he’ll probably sustain a concussion from the various objects that are thrown at his head. At this point, it’s a job he likes to do, and it gets them moving, so I’m willing to take the chance.

I’m happy to say the tacos and smoothies tasted as delicious as always, maybe even more so. I’ve now stopped slapping my head long enough to make a list of my most beloved recipes and pair those with my kids’ most dreaded chores.

On the menu today? Vacuuming, laundry, and yard work with a side of cinnamon rolls.

Published August 9, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been fascinated by the human desire to designate dates for the commemoration of the mundane. Some might remember a column in which I extolled the wonders of National Underwear Day. Others will recall that one of my dreams in life is to be the person who gets to designate the days. (If I were given that job, every day would be National Give Your Humor Columnist Chocolate Day, but I won’t be telling them that in the interview.)

While I don’t have that job, I’m still a National Fill in the Blank Day enthusiast, always on the lookout for a reason to celebrate something no one else would think to celebrate. The fact that these designations often lead to column ideas and to subsequent dollars in my pocket is merely a bonus.

Would you like to know what we’re celebrating this month? I thought you would. The last thing you want to do is miss the memo that it’s National Capri Pants Day and walk out of your house in jeans. Only slightly more embarrassing would be to dress in pink camouflage on National Purple Camouflage Day. I did that last year, and let’s just say there are still neighbors with whom I avoid eye contact.

According to an insightful list on www.holidayinsights.com, August is Admit You’re Happy Month! Come on, all you people in the throes of depression, August knows you’re really happy deep down, so why not drop the façade and grin a little?

While you’re at it, you should smile all the way to your optometrist, because it’s also National Eye Exam Month. While you’re there, invite the kindly eye doctor out for a National Golf Month round of 18 holes and make him/her aware that it’s Romance Awareness Month. By next year, you could both be celebrating National Family Fun Month with a little National Catfish Month catch in the National Water Quality Month river while have a National Picnic Month meal with lots of Peach Month cobbler.

But I’m being too general. The real action is in the daily designations. For instance, today is Book Lover’s Day. If you’re not a book lover, please find some way, medical or otherwise, of knocking yourself unconscious until tomorrow: Lazy Day. Workaholics need not worry about tomorrow as they’re all still high from Work Like a Dog Day on the 5th and haven’t even noticed the passage of time.

I know I’ll be lighting a candle on Middle Child’s Day, August 12th, and venting my frustrations over my childhood in free verse, which I will save for August 18th: Bad Poetry Day. If I manage to stop wallowing in time (Come on, Sarah, admit you’re happy!), I’ll participate in Ride the Wind Day on the 23rd. I don’t know exactly how one rides the wind, but I’m hoping it doesn’t have anything to do with Vesuvius Day on the 24th.

I wonder if anyone bothered to notice that August 2nd was International Forgiveness Day and August 27th is Global Forgiveness Day. I’m not sure what to make of that. Perhaps the 2nd was the day people of all countries forgave each other and the 27th is the day people of all countries forgive the globe? “Earth, you’re not a true sphere…but…I forgive you.”

I’m more than a little concerned about Just Because Day, also on the 27th. You might see doting husbands buying their wives flowers “just because,” but I see an endless parade of sucker punches, wet willies, and atomic wedgies “just because.” It really could go either way, folks. This is what happens when you let someone else designate the days…

Just give me the chocolate, and everything will be all right.

Published August 2, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

The idea for today’s column comes from my dear sister-in-law, Mary, who suggested it over a month ago and has been waiting patiently to see her idea in print ever since. Thanks, Mary. I think chocolate is in order. You’re getting me some, right?

The topic Mary would like me to discuss today involves a fashion trend she finds annoying and, at times, disturbing. I’m talking about the practice of printing words across the rear ends of sweat pants and shorts.

You’ve seen them. Sometimes, they’re sparkly. Sometimes, they’re provocative. But they’re always eye catching, and “in your face,” drawing the eye to the derriere as if to say, “Hey, everyone! I speak from my butt! You should listen!” Never mind that when that area of the body usually speaks, it’s something nobody wants to hear.

There are more than a few problems with this cheeky (heh) fashion trend. Even if we ignore the blatant, “Look at my butt!” energy of it, I think most can conclude it’s just not a good idea.

Take, for instance, the provocative words that crop up on pants and shorts. I’ve seen more than a few bottoms emblazoned with a sparkly “SEXY” or a glittery “HOTTIE.” I do the same thing every time I see it. I take my eyes off the word and check out the woman to see how she compares. It’s not always favorable, and even when it is, I’m struck by how unsexy it is to declare your sexiness to the world in such a silly way. Wouldn’t a shimmering “JUDGE ME” or a loud “MY SELF ESTEEM IS BASED ON WHAT YOU THINK OF ME” have worked as well?

And what’s with the pants that say “JUICY?” Juicy? Really? Did I need to know that? What exactly do you want me to do with that information? I’m sure you meant it for the hot menfolk, but we frumpy moms of five can see it too, and we weren’t really looking for an invitation, you know?

Slightly less affronting, but annoying just the same, are the brand names that find their way onto backsides. I get that designers want to sell their apparel and need their labels visible in order to do so. I don’t understand why a girl would pay outrageous prices just to make her bottom into a billboard.

Okay, that’s not really true. I was a teenager once and remember the label mania. Somehow, it just seemed more sophisticated when the labels were small and unassuming, positioned politely next to belt loops or embroidered on a pocket. Sure, the label meant, “I have the right jeans, please accept me,” but at least it wasn’t, “I PAID $85 SO ABERCROMBIE COULD TAKE OWNERSHIP OF MY BUTT! LET ME BE IN YOUR GROUP! I HAVE NOTHING LEFT!”

If these sweat pants shoppers were really thinking, they’d make their keisters work for them. I bet the makers of Immodium and Preparation H would pay big bucks to put their brand names on people’s butts. I don’t think I need to point out the appropriateness of the placement either. Come on ladies, you could have your freelance fannies putting money in the bank. Come to think of it, I could use a little extra cash.

I’m just waiting for the Fiber One people to call me back.

Published July 26, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

As I write this column, I'm sitting at a computer in Provo, UT, surrounded by women I met for the first time last night but who have been some of my closest friends for about seven years. Confused? I'm here at a gathering of online message board friends, lovingly known to us as the MOFia (for My Online Friends).

The phenomenon of online friendships may seem strange to those who choose to meet people the traditional way, but to us, it's completely normal. Lest you worry about 56 year old male ax murderers (yes mom, I'm talking to you), I will say that our MOFia message board is 100% private, and new recruits join by invitation only, and even then, only if they already know one of the members in real life.

Opportunities to meet happen at frequent, local Girls' Nights Out (GNOs) and annual Girls' Weekends Out (GWOs), where MOFiosas descend upon the designated city, take up residence in a large rented house, and act like teenage girls for the duration. This weekend was the third GWO in the board's history and the first I've been able to attend.

Here's what I've learned.
People you know online do not always look like their pictures. I learned this when I entered the festivities and was immediately goosed by an excited stranger who seemed to be very happy I was there. I did what any girl who's just had her rear end squeezed by a complete stranger would do...I matched her excitement with a happy, "HI!" then sidled over to someone I did recognize to find out the name of my offender. I was relieved to know she was my good friend, Lara, with a new haircut that rendered her unrecognizable (and frisky!)

The later the hour, the more likely you are to post incoherent messages on the message board for the enjoyment of those who did not attend. I think it was about 2 am when I posted a message titled, "There's a monkey in my closet," with updates on all the mommies still awake, including our plans to toilet paper Emily's car, my efforts to spoon with my friend, Sara, and the status of Dawnyel's bra.

Even fashion conscious moms will wear a muumuu on a dare. It was colorful. It was loud. It was frightening. I'm buying a muumuu as soon as possible.

No one is too old for a pillow fight. And if you dare to have a serious discussion when you should be giggling uncontrollably, the girls in the crazy room will get you.

7 hours of sustained laughter will make you wonder if you’re about to learn what having an aneurism feels like. Do people actually die laughing? I might have been close. I may need an MRI.

You don’t need alcohol to have a good time. You just need a good supply of Diet Cokes, the euphoria of being free from responsibilities for a weekend, and a group of friends who know you better than anyone and have no need to be impressed.

Having someone goose when you arrive is just a bonus.

Published July 19, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

Long about 13 ago, I moved to Southern Utah and saw the city of St. George for the first time since I was born there back in 1976. I immediately heard “the rumor.” According to the well informed speaker, St. George was getting an Olive Garden. I heard the same rumor every year for ten years before I finally saw the sign proclaiming the Olive Garden was “coming soon.” (And there was much rejoicing and eating of breadsticks.)

There was a similar rumor about an impending IN-N-OUT Burger destined for the Southern Utah area. That rumor came to fruition much earlier than the Olive Garden rumor, but there was still a good 2 or 3 year wait. The Applebee’s, Chili’s, and Red Lobster rumors were rewarded with the appearance of these restaurants within mere months.

Dear readers: Today, I’m officially starting the 7-11 rumor. There’s going to be a 7-11 in St. George. My sister’s roommate’s brother’s friend is the contractor who’s been hired to build it. It’s going to be located on the corner of Who Cares Where and Does it Really Matter streets. Grand Opening is slated for December.

Of course, I have no idea if the 7-11 people ever plan to build in St. George. However, I believe the above paragraphs show I have history on my side. Once the rumor is started, the business is sure to follow. People, there’s going to be a 7-11 in St. George! You heard it here! Pass it on!

Some might be wondering why I’m so invested in 7-11 locating in St. George. That’s because some have spent their entire lives in Southern Utah and have no idea about the little bit of otherworldly perfection that is the Slurpee. Some don’t know what they’re missing. Some should drive to Las Vegas right now to find out. I’m very sad for some.

For those few, neglected and deprived, who have no idea what a Slurpee is, it’s like an Icee, only 1 million times better. Slurpee is to Icee as silk is to polyester…as Nordstrum’s is to Wal Mart…as just about anything you can think of is to Disney Channel Original Movies. A Slurpee is the genuine article. It’s the real deal. It’s every other cliché for originality ever overused, only without the oxymoronic qualities of a cliché for originality.

Just over a week ago, when the calendar read 7/11, 7-11 stores across the country celebrated by giving away free Slurpees to anyone who wanted one. Did you get your free Slurpee, Southern Utah? No? I didn’t think so. All the more reason the rumor mongering must begin, post haste

Here’s how we’ll work it. You, hunched over your whole-grain breakfast cereal in Bloomington…yes you…you’re in charge of spreading the word during your next golf game. To the man reading the paper after sneaking home to skip Sunday school, I have you set to drop the rumor at the office water cooler tomorrow (and shame on you for skipping Sunday School). Jumping and shrieking teenage girls, you’re going to jump and shriek the news to all your friends so they can jump and shriek the news until it’s all over St. George and the surrounding area (and until all the dogs who can hear at that frequency are salivating at the sound of the word, “Slurpee.”)

It may take a few months, a few years, or even a decade, but when 7-11 finally arrives amid the red rocks of Southern Utah and you all experience the joys of the Slurpee elite, just remember who made it happen. Of course, I’ll graciously accept your offer of free Slurpees for life. Make mine Wild Cherry flavored.

Next week, I’m starting the Dunkin’ Donuts rumor. I like bear claws.

Published July 12, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

Over the past few years, I’ve been working on developing a “live and let live” attitude about my fellow man. I’m trying to believe that everyone belongs, that everyone has a place in this world and a purpose, no matter how purposeless a person might seem.

These days, I’m trying to find a place in the world for Loud Drunk Girl. About a week ago, she thought her place was at a Midnight Jazz concert my husband and I were attending on the street corner where it was held.

Being a teetotaler myself, I don’t have a lot of experience with drunk people. I hear from friends that drunk people have entertainment value. I’m taking their words for it, but after my experience with this particular drunk person, I’m making mental notes not to take their words for anything important in the future. No, Jane, I don’t think I’ll try that new Thai restaurant after all.

There was nothing entertaining about Loud Drunk Girl. There she was, loud and drunk (and did I mention loud?), anxiously awaiting the start of the promised jazz music. By anxiously awaiting, I mean repeatedly yelling, “Areyougonna ssstart? Aren yahgonna plaaay anythinkgs?” These outbursts were interrupted occasionally by the arrival of her friends (or very tolerant complete strangers…who could tell?) which were heralded by her loud and drunk cries of, “Heeeeeeeeeey! You’re…heeeeeeere!”

Either her not as drunk friends decided to take on the “designated steerer of obnoxiously drunk people away from irritated jazz aficionados (DSODPAFIJA)” role or they all forgot why they were on the crowded street corner in the first place. Either way, Loud Drunk Girl staggered off into oblivion, the music starting just moments later. (It’s as if the band was waiting for her to leave. Crazy how that worked out!)

If there’s a place for everyone in the world, there must be a place for Loud Drunk Girl. Loud Drunk Girl must have some purpose in her loud and drunk existence. I understand that she’s probably not loud and drunk all the time, but this is the version of her with which I am acquainted. I’m not here to discuss the belongingness of Prim Responsible Girl, Loud Drunk Girl’s daytime alter ego.

I say we send her to Congress. No, no, no, not as a representative! I’m picturing her as an unpaid rabble rouser…an official heckler. I see her breaking into quiet conversations between lobbyists and legislators with loud and drunk shouts of, “Arenyahgonna governnnnow? Yahgonna do somethinnn fer your country? Think’f your constintunents!” I won’t pretend anything would get done, but at least we could all feel like our representatives are earning their pay.

We could put her to work in the emergency room. “Heeeeeey! Thisguy’s in pain! Anyonegonna help thisguy? I like thisguy…he’s a goodguy.” Who can think about pain when they’re overcome with annoyance?

Imagine Loud Drunk Girl at a poorly attended middle school football game. Can kids be discouraged when they have Loud Drunk Girl shouting, “Wooooooo! Go teams! Play ‘n throw the ballllll! Yoooou’re running! Running is the beessssst?” Every time more fans arrived, Loud Drunk girl could greet them with a sloppy embrace and a, “Heeeeeeeey! You’re…heeeeeere!”

According to friends, there are Loud Drunk Girls all over the country. I say it’s time to put them to work. Let’s give them a purpose! Siphon them away from the Midnight Jazz concerts and toward a productive future.

The first person who says, “Give them a humor column,” can go jump in a lake.

Published July 5, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

This column is dedicated to Paul and Jo Neary, avid readers of The Mother Load from across the pond. You’re both, uh, very British. Good job.

Yesterday, we Americans celebrated our Independence from England with a nationwide solemn prayer service, ceremonial readings of the Declaration of Independence, and dramatic reenactments of the Battle of Bunker Hill. The day was spent in quiet reflection of the men who gave their lives to secure our freedom from tyranny.

Just kidding. Yesterday, we celebrated our self proclaimed status as the “BEST COUNTRY IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD!” with parades, barbecues, demolition derbies, and fireworks displays. Yup, there’s nothing like a charred burger for saying, “Nanny nanny boo boo!” to the Brits.

Me? I’m usually as patriotic as the next gal, but this month, I might as well be singing, “God Save the Queen.” In case it’s escaped your notice, this is not only the month we honor our forefathers. This is the month the new Harry Potter movie is released. Sing it with me now, “God save our gracious Queen. Long live our Noble Queen. God save the Queen.”

I know. I know. I’m very conflicted about this. I am an American, through and through, but when it comes to that teenage wizard with the famous scar, I’m ready to defect right here and now and move my family across the ocean to the motherland. Yes, I know I don’t believe in monarchies. Yes, I think the royal family is a joke. Yes, I know it rains 15 months of the year. It’s all very distressing.

I don’t think I’m the only person out there struggling with these emotions, and I don’t think it’s an accident. It’s all well and good to light up a few sparklers and sing the “Star Spangled Banner” on the 4^th of July, but do we ever stop to think about what the day means to the British? They ruled the world! They were the Empire of the Sun! They had everything, and then some scrappy colonists threw some tea into a harbor and their power was gone. That had to hurt.

I think the British have been planning their comeback ever since. They’ve “allied” themselves with us in world conflicts. They’ve “adopted” some of our style and politics. In every way they’ve put up a friendly front that says, “Sure, we tried rule you then kill you, but we’re friends now! Our Queen only has the power to wave at people! We’re buddies!”

All the while, they plot to bring us back into submission by sending in soldiers and spies to infiltrate our ranks. You’re thinking differently about every Beatles song you’ve ever sung, aren’t you. They want to hold our hand, indeed. What else could Monte Python’s “The Holy Grail” be but a blatant attempt to brainwash Americans into accepting royal rule.

And now…Harry Potter. It’s possibly the most prolific and successful attempt at British control the United States has ever seen, and here I sit, ready, willing, and able to say, “Democracy, schmemocracy!” and turn myself over to the British police. (All my readers who have just tried to say, “Democracy schmemocracy!” aloud know this is no small feat.)

The patriot inside me is doing what she can to balance out the turncoat. With every rereading of one of the Potter books, I’ve been known to shout, “Give me barbecue or give me death!” and slather homemade sauce on a rack of ribs in protest. We’ve started democratically electing desserts in our house, and I vetoed the treacle tart the kids chose (to my disgrace, it was mostly because I just have no idea what treacle is.) I find my comfort in reminding myself that the British may have slowly taken over our country with the help of J.K. Rowling, but the Yanks planted a secret weapon long ago to undermine theirs.

And you thought Madonna just liked the rain.

Published June 28, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

Published June 21, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

Happy Father’s Day to all the Dads out there! I hope you’ve had a day filled with love, appreciation, family togetherness, and MAN GIFTS.

When I say MAN GIFTS, there’s a very specific voice I want you to hear in your mind. It’s definitely a MAN VOICE. I’ve been trying to approximate it all week in preparation for this column, much to the amusement of my husband. You’ve heard it before. “MONDAY! MONDAY! MONDAY! MONSTER TRUCK RALLY!” Only this time, it’s saying, “SUNDAY! SUNDAY! SUNDAY! FATHER’S DAY AND TIME FOR MAN GIFTS!”

MAN GIFTS come in two varieties. First, you have the big, loud, and scary MAN GIFTS which are highly likely to sever a limb or two if used improperly or under the influence of alcohol, drugs, or the misplaced manly ego. The other variety is made up of the small, sleek, and shiny gifts that are usually covered in buttons and ports and are often linked to satellites. While not deadly in and of themselves, these gifts can prove fatal to the unfortunate man who thinks owning a GPS system is equivalent to being James Bond.

Since it’s Father’s Day, I’ve got MAN GIFTS on the brain. This is not because I bought my husband a MAN GIFT for Father’s Day. It’s because advertisers across the country think I should have bought him a MAN GIFT for Father’s Day. “What better way to show Dad you care than with a Manford 72 Bit Power Drill with Flamethrower Attachment and GPS Locater?”

I don’t really mind advertisers. I know they’re real people with families and bills to pay. Their livelihood depends on whether or not they can make the average consumer think he’ll bring shame and misfortune upon his family if he doesn’t buy the product of the moment. If the combination remote control/garage door opener/nose hair trimmer with GPS locater the marketer is promoting doesn’t sell, little Timmy will have to miss soccer camp this year. I feel for Timmy. I do.

I just wonder how much of American consumerism is the product of a highly organized “Emperor’s New Clothes” situation. Do men really want MAN GIFTS or are they conditioned to want MAN GIFTS because advertisers say they should want MAN GIFTS? Would you want to be the lone man on the block saying, “Nah, I just don’t think I need the Gadgetron 3000. It’s not practical. I’d much rather have a hand knitted tea cozy.”

When I ran the previous line past my husband, he just shrugged and asked me what a tea cozy was. “Aha!” I shouted in triumph, “You see how deep it runs? You pretend to not know what a tea cozy is because men aren’t supposed to know what tea cozies are! The emperor’s clothes are very fine, aren’t they?” He stared at me patiently until I gave in and explained the concept of a hand knitted cover for a teapot and then harrumphed myself to sleep.

I’m sure the men among my readership (both of you! Hi guys!) will say that there are equivalent Woman Gifts (think the soothing singing voice behind “Every kiss begins with Kay”) that rival the cost and impracticality of MAN GIFTS. I don’t disagree. Advertisers push jewelry, cosmetics, and trips to the day spa on women-centered holidays. The difference is that women need and deserve such treatment simply for being who they are.

I don’t know why the emperor is naked, but the empress is looking fabulous in that gown!

Published June 14, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

Two weeks ago, I bought 6 and a half dozen eggs at the local wholesale store. I usually only buy the big case of five dozen, but I threw on the extra 18 pack in a fit of what I thought was genius. “This will make them last longer,” I thought to myself, thoroughly satisfied with my ingenuity. They were gone in a week and a half.

As I stood in my kitchen and surveyed the empty box of eggs, I looked to my children for the answer to the mystery. Four of them stepped forward and responded in unison: “Ray!”

My oldest child has half a year until he can officially call himself a teenager, and it seems his appetite is not willing to wait. I make sure he gets a full, balanced diet of meals and snacks, and he makes sure he gets a full, balanced diet of meals and snacks in addition to that.

The boy wakes up early in the morning to eat, steps away from family activities and play time to eat, and lies awake in his bed at night so he can sneak into the kitchen and eat after my husband and I have gone to bed. At any given moment, my house smells distinctly of fried eggs, cinnamon toast, quesadillas, and ramen noodles. If my house tasted like microwaveable chimichangas, I think he would literally eat us out of house and home.

About a week ago, we had lasagna for dinner, which happens to be Ray’s favorite. Every few bites were punctuated by anxious shouts. “Don’t take it all!” “What? She gets more?” “Hey! I was going to have that!” When I reminded him he was already on his third helping while most of the family had only eaten a first, his head snapped up and he said, eyes wide with panic, “I’ll be able to get fourths, right?”

It was at this point in this column that I realized my son might not enjoy having his adventures in food published in the pages of a newspaper for both friends and strangers to read. Pulling Ray away from his fifth snack of the morning, I read the preceding paragraphs to him and formally asked him if I could submit this to my editor. His response: “Ooooh! Can we have lasagna tonight?”

I really don’t mind that he eats as much as he does. I understand that puberty is upon us (I’m going to hide under my bed and cry when that actually hits me) and he needs all these extra calories to grow. He’s reaching the stage in life at which boys outgrow their mothers (I’m going to kick and scream and punch the dust bunnies under my bed when that actually hits me) and that stage requires a man sized appetite.

I just wish I had planned better for this. If we’re going to go through 223 eggs in one month (and I haven’t even mentioned the amount of bread, fruit, tortillas, and cheese the kid puts away), we’re going to have to increase our grocery budget significantly. I should have started socking money away in a CD or mutual fund when he was a baby. At the very least, I could have put him to work delivering papers or mowing lawns when he was five or six to build up a teen appetite savings.

For now, I’m coming up with ideas for how to feed this growing boy without selling one of the cars or resorting to a life of crime. So far, I’ve got “Pray for raises” and “Shop at the dollar store” on the list. Nothing else is forthcoming.

I had “Save money by giving up chocolate” on the list, but I took it off because it’s just not practical.