I didn't know about reversible underwear

The clues were right under my fingertips, drifting up toward my nose, which, by the way,  should be loaned  out to the FBI or TSA because one snort of this formidable honker draws in a tornado strength of smells, each  instantly recognizable. I'm like an olfactory terminator and I've been told I've got the nose of a bloodhound. Or a truffle smelling pig. Or my grandmother Hayes.

So when the kids came home from their monthly visit at their grandparents spread in New York a few weeks ago, and Teen Boy's suitcase looked remarkably untouched, as if he never unzipped it, I should have known. The undies still in perfect little stacks, the gleaming white socks gripping each others soles.

But sometimes parents can't face the truth, can't stomach the news, can't handle the discovery that their offspring have chosen a different path or perhaps, in the case of  Teen Boy, unclothed a way to save the earth, one knicker at a time.

He recycles his underwear.

This was his dirty little secret.

And to a mother who never wears her jammies twice, brushes her old fangs several times a day, and uses  a paper towel to open the door of a public restroom,  I was in a tailspin.

Okay, I know he's old enough  to be packing on his own, but I enjoy lining up his shirts and knowing that he's got a solid supply of clean sweet smelling t-shirts, boxer briefs and crew socks.neatly folded in  the bowels of his bag. What happens if he slips into the ponds? Or drops a pizza on his lap? Or dribbles milk down his chest? Or the dogs slobber on his jeans? So on the morning of his departure to the great Empire State, I packed his bags. I shoved in a few funky argyle sweaters for a big dinner party that his grandparents were throwing one evening in their honor.

There's no riff raff in that house.

I had to sit on the bulging duffel to close the zipper.

Teen boy picked up his bag and dropped it back on the couch.

"You pack way too much. I'm going for four days. I don't need this stuff."

He peeled back the zipper and started pulling out the underwear.

"I only need one," Teen Boy grunted.

"What? You're going for four days. You need four and a couple of spares," I said.


"Nope. Just need one."

"Don't you change your underwear every day?" I asked.

"I'll  turn them inside out."

"What!?"

No answer.

"What happens if you get skid marks?"

No answer.


"That's disgusting," I said.

Teen Boy tossed out a few pairs of brilliant white socks on the couch.

"Do you wear the same socks, too?" I asked.

"Yep."

Teen Boy doesn't really need luggage. He carries all he needs on his back, like a donkey.

"How can you put dirty clothes on a clean body?"

Teen Boy tossed out three  t-shirts.

"Oh, dear God. You turn your t-shirts inside out, too?"

"Yep." 


Teen Boy completed the luggage purge by tossing out the argyles.

If it hadn't been so early in the day, I might have turned to the liquor cabinet for solace. But instead, I popped down another stale Christmas cookie and wondered where I'd  gone wrong. Hmmm..Isn't cleanliness next to Godliness? But Teen Boy is an atheist so pulling that one over his head wasn't going to work. And I wasn't one of those ultra fussy Mominators  who threw a wobbly when their kid came in with a rice sized stain on his shirt.

Hell, Teen Boy spent most of his early days living like a cave boy- running around the garden in the buff, digging in sand and soil pits, rolling in the mud, covered with leaves and twigs, his face glowing with rivers of freeze pops running down his cheeks, chest and nether regions. Toddler Boy looked like a street urchin for most of his formative years and   I never raised an eyebrow. At the end of the day, I'd simply drop him in the tub, give him a good old scrub and tuck him into a clean pair of jammies.


"You do wear clean underwear when you're here, right? I asked.

"Yep."

I'm not sure if I buy that one. But I know that Teen Boy is not alone. My nephew travels light, too. Just the clothes on his back and the wallet in his pocket.

But sometimes the offspring must learn lessons from their elders. And sometimes justice is only a generation away. I've just heard from Teen Girl that Teen Boy went shopping with their Grandfather last night. Seems like he'll be hyper stylin in a new pair of preppy trousers, loafers and button down shirt at tonight's dinner party.

Hmmm....bet Teen Boy wishes that he hadn't tossed  out that bright white t-shirt and argyle sweater.

I'm just curried out.....

Teen boy cooked a fabulous Indian meal a week ago on Friday. A spicy sweet Dal with rice and vegetable pakoras. The house was filled with the sweet aromas of a far away land.

Teen boy cooked another Indian spread again on the following night. The house exploded with flavor and smells, the only thing missing was a Bollywood flick on the telly and the lyrical lilt of an Indian accent.

And though I shouldn't complain, because I'm so damn lucky to have a teen who can roll out homemade vegan dumplings and bake a loaf of  bread that will soon rival the best French bakery, the house smelled like an Indian take out for days. We're not talking two or three days, but that damn smell held us hostage for  over a week.It wasn't a light ethnic fragrance, like the magical summer smells of  basil, rosemary or lemongrass: :it was a full bodied blast that stuck around longer than Fran's hysterical cackle, and Fran herself. 

And I'm now wondering how long is the half life of Curry?

I adore the heady bouquet of Indian spices, the exotic notes of tumeric, fenugreek, cardamon and garam masala but when you whip up two Indian meals on  two consecutive days, you fundamentally alter the molecular structure of those delightful herbs, transforming them into an indestructible curry fog that infuses everything in its path.

It was like an Indian horror flick.

Tumeric, fenugreek and garam masala slowly crept into  my area rug fibers, permeated my walls (which is a feat since I've got so much paint on the sheet rock that Sissy wears that one day they will just buckle) and even muscled their way into my kitchen linens.  And though  I flooded the counters with bleach, mopped the floors with Murphy's Oil Soap, emptied a full bottle of Glade Fresh Air Spray (Fresh Linen)  on every object within a five foot radius, including ones that breathe, the smells  lingered for days.

Opening the doors or throwing up the windows didn't help. It just tripped the thermostat. 

Nothing worked.  The smell moved  upstairs, winding itself into my closet, infusing my cashmere cardies with the perfume of curry.  My pillow smelled like curry. My cats carried the smell of curry on their fur. Every key stroke on my computer seemingly unleashed a cloud of curry.

There was no escape.

It was bad. Very bad. 

Teen boy has been on an Indian food bender ever since buying a bag of fenugreek off an herb dude in New York City. Most kids buy clothes or video games- my kid buys spices and teas. When most teens are shoving down triple pound burgers, he's enjoying tofu in a spicy orange sauce.

He's becoming a really great cook and I don't want to trample on his creativity but I laid down the law one morning as I was sipping my tea and inhaling the sweet smell of six  day old curry. There's nothing more soothing than waking up to curry.

"Let's not cook Indian food two days in a row," I suggested.

"I was thinking of seeing how long I could eat just Indian food," teen boys said..

"Hmmm....well....then I'll buy you a portable camping stove and you can cook outside,"  I said. 

I can't think of another cooking smell that even comes close to rivaling a curry bender, except for fried fish or french fries. When my nephew got a Fry Daddy for Christmas one year (sissy did not buy him this gift), he went  on a year long frying frenzy, plunging every imaginable food into that bubbling vat of fat. He'd drop a load of spuds into that Fry Daddy before the roosters started crowing. I don't think he ever changed the oil or even unplugged it. It was a workhorse and Sissy silently prayed for its demise, pleading that the  Frying Gods  would send down a bolt of electricity and short out the motor.

But his frying fiesta ended as quickly as it began and the Fry Daddy is now at the bottom of a giant heap of garbage somewhere in the Midwest, its motor crushed, its frying days over.

When I reminded Teen boy of his nephew's dance with the fryer, he smiled.

And then asked for a Fry Daddy for Christmas.

I'm Not Adding Demo Lady to My CV...

If you happen to come across my BCHS 1980 yearbook, and take a peek at my senior profile (ignore the apricot mandarin collar, puffy hair and that crazy forced smile plastered on my tilted head)  you'll find that I was the classic underachiever. My dream job? An unbridled desire to work as a clerk at our local dry cleaner. I owe that gem to my still dear friend, Kathy, who altruistically filled out and submitted my senior profile for me since I was too busy doing bong loads to write one up. It could have been worse-she could have written down naughty phone operator, escort, madam, stripper or deli clerk.

I've had a lot of jobs - some great, others so bad that I only lasted days, like my stint at our local dry cleaner. While dropping off my father's shirts one day, I noticed a help wanted sign on the door. Since my parents were getting fed up with me constantly hitting them up for cash and  I got the "Do you know how lucky you are?" talk more times than I can remember, I decided that getting a job would score some big points. Besides, I needed some cash for an upcoming Stray Cats concert and didn't want to ask my parents for more money so soon after the "talk."

I'd join the after school work force. I'd show my parents that I understood how hard work could be. I'd show some initiative. Roll up my fair isle sweater sleeves. Show some drive. Learn some discipline. Show some "can do" spirit.

So when I asked the lady at the counter if I could apply, she raised her eyebrows and said, "Really?"

I should have known.

Somehow, I hadn't realized that I'd actually have to touch those dirty shirts and smelly down comforters. Now those cotton oxfords weren't grimy, but the thought of handling a stranger's garments was unsettling. Hell, I don't even like picking up my own family's soiled laundry and if I could design giant  'laundry tongs' to avoid direct contact with skid marked undies, I would.  And  keeping  all the orders separate and intact when most of the ladies in town dumped their mounds of wrinkled  shirts on the counter and ran out the door to make their tee-time,  was simply overwhelming.

"Hmm...does this Brooks Brothers shirt belong to Mr. Hastings? Or Mr. Barnes? or Mr. Kelley? "How many shirts did Mrs. Carroll drop off?"

I'd end up tossing shirts in what ever bag was closest and hoped that they wouldn't realize that their monogrammed initials weren't their own.

I  lasted two weeks. Though I am sure I would have got sacked, I called the owner and told her it just wasn't going to work.

"It's not a good fit, " I said.

A few months later a group of us got hired at one of my father's client's companies as telemarketers flogging insulation. Well, put a gaggle of kooky estrogen fueled teen girls  in a room with dozens of phones,  stacks of phone directories, a pushover of a boss and you've got the perfect spot to launch endless rounds of prank phone calls. While we should have been calling folks setting up estimates, we'd end up phoning the fraternity houses at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute (RPI)  posing as Farrah, Savannah or Georgette, chatting up the young and untouchable Greek boys using our best Southern, French or Indian accents.. Those were the good old days before the advent of  caller ID where you were free to make untraceable prank calls.

It was a blast.

Until the sales numbers came in and we all got fired.

Then we all moved to  the new Kmart across town and got to wear those fashionable and oh so hip blue smocks that made us look like smurfs.   I got stuck on register while my friends were assigned to cosmetics and shoes and got to hide in the stockroom or aisles, pretending to work. The best part of my shift was turning off my register light as a loaded shopping cart was pulling into my aisle. "Sorry, I'm closed," I'd smile.

So you can imagine Sissy's sheer trepidation and outright terror when she approached me a few weeks back and asked if I would like to help her out.

Sissy works as a District Manager and one of her accounts is the unnamed manufacturer of a certain chic coffee machine. One of her jobs involves setting up demonstrations in upscale malls over the holiday season and she's has had difficulties finding responsible ladies and gents to do the Demos.   Unlike me, sissy is a model employee- she goes far beyond what most employees do to get the job done right. She's an organizing machine, running through paperwork, emails and phone calls with the speed and efficiency of a giant paper shredder. She has 'to do' lists and strikes out each task with vengeance. Her home office is a hive of activity, her walls plastered with post -its and excel spread sheets, phones ringing, computers groaning under the stress of another long work day.

My 'to-do' lists end up flying out my office  window or get lost below  a mountain of notes and files. Notes from interviews are smudged by tea cup rings. I move from window to window, room to room, fridge to freezer, in an aimless drift, eventually finding myself back to my computer.

Sissy was desperate.

And I wanted one of those swanky machines. (a job perk)

"Yes! I can be a Demo Lady. I won't let you down, Sissy," I said.

I'd show Sissy that I could serve coffee with a smile to all those wonderfully polite shoppers who, at the first recognizable sniff of that familiar odor, start a stampede , knocking over senior citizens, the infirm, infants in carriages, all to score a free 8 ounce cup of coffee.  I'd win them over. I'd happily and eagerly explain how the magical machine effortlessly burps  out a cup of java in seconds .I'd serve them with a smile. Draw them in with my winning personality. And be really nice.

Well, umm....being a Demo Lady is hard work. After standing on my tootsies for over  9 hours with my Sissy, I've come to the conclusion that this body wasn't designed to stand in an upright position for an extended period of time, unless, of course, I'm shopping.

My hips, back and knees ached, and I had tankles- my gastrocnemius muscles ran right into my foot, my ankles had simple vanished under the fold of fluid. And oh, dear, the feet. My long toes looked like Jones' breakfast sausages, my shoes straining  under their  growing girth.  My lipstick melted onto my face. And my perpetual under eye bags had become  suitcases.


Half way into my gig as a Demo Lady, I wanted to unplug my machine, rip off my apron, and sprint toward my car, but every time I entertained that thought, Sissy's big brown eyes, heavy with the weight of trying to find responsible Demo Ladies, looked over at me. (Because most of the hiring is done over the phone, you never quite know what you are getting - everyone can talk a good game over the phone- "Oh, yes, I LOVE serving coffee," "I am a people person" "I look professional" "I am responsible." and "You can count on me.")

How could I let my Sissy down? She wasn't just my boss: she was my sister. We shared DNA and our crazy family history. We shared more than our fair share of  deep guttural laughs and heart wrenching tears. No, I couldn't do a 'runner'. I'd have to stand with my fellow Demo Sisters and Brothers (yes, there was a Demo Man) and slug it out.

I'd persevere. I'd welcome the four deep crowd with open arms.  I'd find pleasure in serving 500 cups of Hazelnut and French Vanilla. I'd soften the crabby ones with my charm and wit.And I'd smile when I recognized the ones who came back for seconds and thirds and fourths. After all, it was for Sissy. And I'd just about do anything for her- except fill in as  a Demo Lady next Christmas.

A not so ordinary life

I was cleaning the unnamed teen's room the other day when I happened to notice a big chubby booger frozen in time, adhered to bedroom wall like a little boulder.

And instantly, the image of Frank appeared in my thoughts.

Frank hung our wallpaper and painted our walls since I was a toe headed tornado terrorizing the neighborhood. And he was a fixture in our houses for as long as I can remember because mom changed wallpapers and colors as frequently as she changed her underwear.

He was a tidy little man, with black crescent moons under his watery blue eyes, a master wallpaper hanger who cut long rolls of imported wallpaper with the precision of a surgeon. He'd match up the wild floral patterns of the 70's and the heavily flocked wallpaper so well, you'd be hard pressed to find the seams.

I used to like Frank until he announced in front of a house full of guests that he'd found hundreds of petrified boogers on my wall and had to spend the day chiseling them off before he could paint.

Frank thought he was funny.

But I didn't.

Okay, I admit, I did pick my nose when I was younger. But I also used to poop in my pants. And stick pussy willows up my nose. However, there was no way in hell that I had covered my wall in boogers and the thought of entombing Frank behind a thick sheet of vinyl wallpaper is still floating around thirty five years later.

He'd mention the booger wall every chance he'd get.

"Frank," I'd snap. "That was like when I was five."

"Do you know how long I spent scrapping them off that wall?" he'd laugh.

When I found out years later that he had been having an affair with a blond beauty, I nearly fell off my stool. Frank?

Frank was just one of the many odd characters who blew into our life, some like a gentle breeze, others like a gale force wind. My father seemed to collect these wayward men and women, holding on to them for months or years before they'd disappear as quickly as they came.

I remember another Frank, a lumbering giant of a man who joined us far too often for dinner.

Frank reminded me of a mobile Perry Mason.

My father would bound into the house with Frank on his heels. Frank never wore a suit coat, but always had on a pressed white shirt and black tie. I don't think they made suit coats large enough to cover Frank's torso,

"Can we set a plate for Frank?" my father would say.

He always grabbed the seat at the head of the table.

My mother would force a smile, grab another plate while silently thinking that she'd like to ring my father's neck for not calling her first. She'd divide steaks, throw on an extra vegetable, and eyeball us throughout dinner not to take a second helping.

Frank loved mashed potatoes and always loaded his plate with a mountain of my mom's special spuds. We'd be left with a little dollop. He'd spear the largest steak and gulp down milk without taking a breath. He'd wipe out the whole table in a matter of minutes, leaving us with empty bellies. What was an interesting guest at first turned into a dinner stealing man who left us hungry and a little frightened. Frank seemed to grow right before our eyes into spud eating monster.

Then there was Fran, a glamorous ginger haired beauty who drove around town in a convertible with a silk scarf tied under her chin. She lived with her parents above their bakery and used to bring over boxes of stale gingerbread men for us to eat during the holidays. She bathed in Jean Nate', wore slinky pantsuits and had the most ear piercing laugh I'd ever heard. She'd give us hugs, leaving her scent on us as we slept, though sleeping was nearly impossible when Fran had a few whiskey sours. Her voice would rise, sweeping across the living room into our bedrooms just down the hall and jolting us awake with her cascading cackle.

Like Frank, she showed up announced, but she never hogged my potatoes. She'd come in, untie her scarf, the luminous ginger curls would unfold like an accordion, settling on her petite shoulders. And she'd stay, and stay and stay. Once Fran settled in, she was good for a few hours.

You'd need a few sticks of dynamite to get her to leave.

I think Fran was born into the wrong family, the wrong city. She belonged in Hollywood on the arm of an actor or director. But she was trapped in upstate New York, looking after a bakery whose customers seemed to be drifting away and two aging parents who got up long before the sunrise and retired shortly after its sunset.

It must have been a lonely life for Fran, so she took comfort in my grandfather's arms. When we learned of this steamy relationship from a family friend not too long ago, sissy and I nearly fell from our chairs once again. Fran and Papa? Papa owned an auto shop that backed up to Fran's bakery where obviously more than the sweet smell of sugar and spice wafted over into the two bay garage.

We'd had a George, a male version of Fran, who dressed up in white suits and patent leather shoes. He was so clean, he shined, like a silver plated statue. Or maybe that was the booze that made him glow. He was my mom's friend's second husband. George was an LPN but we never knew where or if he worked. His wife would dress him up and plant him in a chair. He had a monotonous creepy laugh that never fluctuated despite downing whiskey after whiskey. That man could knock back a whole bottle of Chivas Regal without so much as a slur. I never saw him eat or go to the bathroom or even engage in the spirited conversation whirling around him. He was a forgotten soul on a chair in the corner- the perfect little accessory to a woman who only wanted a daughter. And had one.

He has Alzheimer's now and mows the lawn in his underwear.

Then there was David, another petite man, who my father met while attending medical school in Barbados. A fellow trial attorney, David and my father had a lot in common and within weeks, I discovered that David had moved into the guest room across from my bedroom. But David was very hairy and left a carpet of fur in my tub every time he showered. Black curly hairs in the tub, on the floor and in the sink. Naturally, my father thought this was hilarious until I used a pair of tweezers to collect enough hair to fill a sandwich baggie and deposited the bulging bag on my dad's pillow.

Over the course of a few weeks, David began assimilating into our family a little too much- he knew a good gig when he saw it. He'd rummage through our fridge and grab the last drops of milk, the last piece of cheese, the last piece of bread. He'd lay on the couch in the family room, hogging the remote. He took my father's seat at the dinner table. He asked my mother to do his laundry.

That was the end of David.

I'm sure David was filing papers to change his surname.

But one of the most intriguing characters was Marcello- an Italian guy who owned a national tile company. Never without a cigarette dangling off his lips, Marcello, with his wild curly hair and cockeyed glasses, crashed into rooms with a thud. He was loud, lively and a self-proclaimed lady magnet, even though he had a lovely little lady right at home baking him bread and canning tomatoes from his huge garden.

Marcello's spirit was contagious, his stories of surviving the Andre Doria flowed faster than a swollen river, his thick lyrical accent made even the naughtiest words sound beautiful. He was an Italian tile superstar always on some type of bender. Speeding tickets, contract negotiations gone sour, the talk of cement shoes- he had my father on retainer for years, both sharing a passion for travel, fine food and women.

I don't know what happened to the Fran or the Franks, David or Marcello. I'd like to think that they enjoyed the time that they spent caught up in our dysfunctional family web. Because when I look back at the long line of characters that walked into and out of my life, it is indeed richer and more interesting because of them.

Life in my household was never ordinary.

And even to this day, if I happen to have an itch, and find myself without a tissue, I wonder if somewhere Frank is watching.

The Wrinkle Juggernaut

Not too long ago, I pulled into a parking lot and noticed a distinguished elderly woman in the passenger's seat of the car parked next to mine. With a small mirror in one hand and a large pair of tweezers in the other, she had been plucking her chin hairs. When she saw me look over, she quickly put them down and smiled.

I wanted to say, "Pluck away,Sister, pluck away."

Though I haven't sprouted those billy goat hairs yet, I use the natural daylight to weed out the gray hairs that have miraculously formed my first silver halo. Now, the old eyeballs need as much light as possible to see and I admit, I've passed hours waiting for the kids by plucking gray hairs and inspecting the wrinkles in parking lots across the country.

When the kids were younger and didn't know any better, I tried paying them a buck for every gray hair they successfully plucked from the back of my head. But using tweezers requires great skill and patience, something which they hadn't yet acquired. Every gray hair that was freed came at the expense of several clumps of brown ones. I was worried that I'd look like one of those baby dolls that had most of their locks yanked out by naughty little girls, leaving little wispy bits of hair on an otherwise bald plastic head. By the time their dexterity improved, it was too late. They thought it was disgusting.

"I feel like we're gorillas" said teen girl.

"Well, they groom each other seem to be quite happy," I said, urging her to take the tweezers.

"That's 'cause they're looking for bugs."

Point noted.

But I don't like my gray hairs. Or wrinkles. Full stop. There. I've said it. If I could magically erase all signs of aging, I'd be singing in the streets. Doing cartwheels. Streaking in delight through the streets of Sandwich. But unless I discover the Fountain of Youth, there is no stopping that juggernaut.

I can take a few wrinkles, a spray of gray and even a few liver spots. But let's stop right there. No more. As my nephew likes to say, "I'm all set, thank you."

With my pale complexion, I just don't look like a silver fox. I look like an middle aged Mom who couldn't be bothered grabbing a box of Clairol when she was picking up pads for a leaky bladder. I have a few pewter haired friends who simply look radiant and almost seem to glow in a metallic aura. Their hair is soft, shiny and sassy. They bounce around town with unbridled confidence, looking like urban sophisticates.

My grays are so brittle that I thought about sending them to Brillo-maybe they'd launch a natural scrubbing line. Seriously, imagine the extra income I 'd pull in.

I have so many gray hairs that pulling out all of those wiry buggers would be like using an eyelash separator to rake my lawn soI've given up until my hairdresser waves the white flag and says, "Blond Honey, Number 36."

But if the grays aren't bad enough, the wrinkles are what keep me in the crowded aisles of CVS for hours, squinting, trying to read about Retinol A, glycolic acid and skin bleaching formulas. I used to laugh at those old Porcelana ads, but now, a plastic tub sits dutifully next to my reading glasses and eye cream on my bedside table. All I need now is a tub of Vick's.

How time flies.

I remember discovering my first 'wrinkle' when I was 25 in the woman's restroom of the Plaza Hotel in New York City. It's a good thing that I had downed a few vodka and tonics because it gave me quite a startle. I thought I'd never age, be one of those miraculously tight skinned women in the movies that somehow dodged wrinkles. But when I look back, they were hairline cracks, a mere tease of the bigger faults that were ready to erupt.

I know some people say, "I've earned every one of these wrinkles." Well, so have I, but please isn't there a wrinkle bank somewhere where I can transfer these crow's feet?

This is one time I'd rather not be paid for parenting; for worrying about diaper rash, teething or college tuition.

Nope. I'll gladly fret for free.

A few of my friends have shelled out thousands on laser treatments for wrinkles and chin hair but since the only laser I can afford is one of those pointers used by professors and pranksters, I'm stuck with over the counter products and anything I can mix up in my kitchen. (Mango and Papaya make a great facial mask, but don't walk outside when the bees are hot on pollen- not a favorable mix)

I thought briefly about not laughing anymore since I've got a highway of smile lines. Perhaps I should have adopted the Larchmont Lockjaw- those old New York faces don't move when they talk or laugh...just a low hee, hee, hee. I tried it once and looked like I belonged in a suburban horror movie

So I'm throwing in my white towel now.

Give me those laugh lines, toss me some crow's feet and throw in some chin hairs.

I'll laugh all the way to the bank.

Pizza Wars

The other day I got stranded in my husband's matchbook sized car with two contentious teens for nearly two hours.

I have yet to recover from the 120 minutes of continuous bickering. As each minute passed, the car seemed to shrink, their voices grew louder and like many times before, I truly understood why so many mothers go AWOL, leaving their minivans to rust in mall parking lots throughout the country. I had to fight the urge to run.

I got a flat at 5.15pm-perhaps the most unsuitable time for rubber puncture, but then again, is there ever a good time for a flat? When I heard that familiar thud, thud, kerplunk noise coming from the front end of the car, I admit I uttered a few colorful expletives.

I'd raced out of the house looking like an old dishrag left in the kitchen sink too long. This is what happens when you work from home- you get very, very lazy when it comes to throwing on a set of clothes.

Some of my get-ups even scare me.

With a cardigan that looked like Swiss cheese ,(if you see any chubby moths around, its because they have skeins of my sweaters in their guts) the layers of my hair sticking up like wayward sails, no make-up and wearing that ultra fashionable white sock and athletic slide look, I grabbed teen girl and told her to come along while I fetched her brother in Wood's Hole, a 30 minute drive away. She didn't come to keep me company, but rather to make a beauty and junk stop at the CVS to buy another batch of nail polish and candy corn. Nothing would make this girl happier than to be in bed, reading a book, cell phone in hand, completely surrounded by giant bags overflowing with candy corn.

Think Veruca Salt.

The rim resting on the asphalt confirmed my suspicions- Michael had obviously run over something earlier in the day. As a woman who prides herself on being self reliant, I took the jack and spare tire out and got to work. It must have been quite a sight- me in my fashionista attire, teen boy standing over me with his hands in his pocket, hood pulled down over his face, blank look on his face and teen girl in the car with her taffy like legs stretched out the window, her big feet still in her white soccer cleats, painstakingly applying a coat of passion purple on her nails. After a few minutes of trying to take off the those thingys that hold the tire on, I belched out another round of naughty adjectives and phoned AAA.

"He'll be there shortly," the lady said.

And then the fighting began.

"What are we going to have for dinner?" asked teen boy.

I know, someday I will miss that question but for now, it goes right through me like a bad curry.

"I can tell you one thing we are not having. My cooking," I said.

"Can we get pizza?" asked teen girl.

And this is where it got ugly.

We're a family of pizza lovers- but the teen offspring can never agree on where to get the pizza. Both the hubby and I love pizza and although I really haven't found the ultimate pizza here on Cape, a pizza for dinner sure beats whipping up a meal at 8.00 at night. As long as it comes hot in a box and I don't have to fire up the range, I am happy. But this comes from a woman whose male babysitter used to broil up his own version of pizza using Wonder bread, ketchup and American cheese.

But these darn kids.

"Can we have Sweet Tomatoes," teen boy asks, knowing full well that his sister hates the chunky thin crusted pie.

"Can we have Domino's," says teen girl, knowing full well that her brother hates that pre-formed doughy discs.

"I hate Sweet Tomatoes" teen girl hisses. "It's gross."

She has no idea what a gross pizza tastes like until she tries the Wonder Bread Delight.

"Well I hate Domino's" teen boy puffs. "It's disgusting."

Ditto for Teen Boy. A soggy piece of white bread drenched with ketchup- now that's disgusting.

And so it went- for two hours- we went through every pizza place this side of the Mason Dixon line, both unwilling to make a concession.

"Okay, that's it," I shouted. "I am never, ever ordering pizza again until you guys leave for school," And like so many other outlandish threats issued over the past 17 years, it had as much bite as the tooth fairy.

They just stared.

"Well, then, Daddy and I will order pizza and you guys will have to fend for yourselves." I said.

"I call leftover macaroni and cheese," yelled teen boy.

"No fair," screamed teen girl.

"Okay, that's it. I don't know why we ever gave you the choice," I said, reminding them for the hundredth time that my parents always ordered the pizza in our house. No "It's your turn this weekend, darling." Nope, they had full reign since they were picking up the tab. The only time we were given the choice was on Friday night when they went out for dinner and left Sissy in charge. Sissy ruled over us with a titanium fist, deciding where we got the pizza and how many pieces she would let us have. But what really made us mad was her calling "first choice" which meant she opened the box and slowly scanned the whole pie until she found the biggest slices.

"Those are mine," she'd shout.

She'd leave us to fight over the misshapen slices, the ones that slide around the pizza box and lost half their cheese. She'd leave us the ones with those giant bubbles on the crust- according to Sissy, they were pizza warts and she wasn't eating any of those.

I don't know what to cook for dinner this evening, tumbling through my mental recipe files, I can't come up with anything that won't provoke a dispute. I don't know what I'll manage to throw together but one thing is for sure, it won't be pizza.

Double Digit Feet- A generational battle of epic proportions.

I'll never forget the annual humiliation when sitting at my local Stride Rite store, waiting for the middle aged shoe salesman to measure my ever growing feet. From his shirt pocket, he'd pull out my record of extraordinary foot growth on a well-worn index card and would bellow,

"Wow, she'll be in a size 11 by the rate she's growing."

Just what a 10 year old tween wants to hear in a store packed with her peers.



It never bothered me being tall; there is a certain elegance to being long and lean, but having big hooves is as manly as one can get without having a mustache. And with menopause snipping at my calloused heels, I'll be plucking stray chin hairs in a matter of months.

Having big feet limited the choice of footwear, particularly in the summer- no white flats or sandals for me. I mistakenly bought a pair of cute white gladiator type sandals during one summer and they looked as if I strapped on two mini fridges on my soles. And when my father joked that I needed to put license plates on them in order to walk on the street, they ended up in the garbage bin that night. Flats made me feel like a clown and whenever I walked barefoot, I felt the distinctive and repetitive slap of my large hooves as they struck the pavement, thump, thump, thump, sending up clouds of road dust. There is little grace in a size 101/2 flat footed woman.

For years, I would try to squeeze into 8's or 9's- with often disastrous and crippling results. Though I would no longer buy a pair of snake skin heels, there was a time when I couldn't have enough reptile on my body. From belts to bags to shoes, I just about rattled as I slithered through town. When I spotted two pairs of size 9 designer snake skin heels on a sales rack, marked well below their original price, I jammed my feet in and said "sold." They'd be perfect for my upcoming trip to the city. They were simply gorgeous, absolutely sexy and nearly two sizes too small. But that was just a minor detail. After all, my feet looked spectacular in those stilettos. And hadn't we all been told that beauty equals pain- think bikini and underarm wax.

But what I failed to factor in was the monstrous heatwave that had crippled New York City for the preceding week. A blast of hot thick air greeted me as I stepped off the cool train, the oppressively hot air instantly turning my blown dried hair into a frizzy nest of waves. By ten blocks, my feet had doubled in size, rising like two doughy loaves of bread, flowing over the shoes, the seams of the snake skin heels nearly bursting under the strain. My toes were curled, the twisted knuckles bulging beneath the snake skin pumps, and I hadn't brought a back up pair of shoes. The only thing that saved me was meeting my best friend at the Seaport Bar for a few stiff vodka and tonics. That was the last time I ever, ever crammed my feet into shoes that were too small.

When our daughter was born, I knew the odds weren't in her favor of inheriting her father's dainty English feet, his long non-hairy toes make up half the length. (I frequently catch him admiring his feet as they're propped up on the coffee table, pointing and stretching his toes like a dancer) No, those Teutonic Cade chromosomes were tenacious and trampled the hell out of the Jones' petite feet genes.

That poor girl walked out of my uterus with my formidable feet and her father's slender toes. And she hasn't forgiven us yet.

We went shopping for flats last week- heels bring her well over 6 feet and majority of 9th grade boys, so we immediately set our eyes on flats. But with a large foot and long, long toes, that presented a design problem: toe cleavage. Now, there is nothing worse than having toe cleavage in flats- and if I were a shoe designer, I'd exponentially increase the amount of leather that wraps around toes as the size of the shoe increases. But they don't do this. And flat after flat exposed the trunks of her toes. I thought about designing a toe flap, a small piece of fabric that would forever close off the toe cleavage. Perhaps this would be my pet rock.

But thanks to Simply Vera Wang at Kohl's, the toe flap has been tossed beside the many other would be inventions because we found the perfect flat for a big foot with long spindly toes. They modestly cover the toe cleavage and the funky little bling that sits atop of the flat looked simply adorable.

They are a 9 1/2....and when I shoved my foot in, they kind of fit, if I crumpled my toes. I walked around the house, wondering if I could get away with wearing them for an upcoming event.

The Library Wall of Shame

My sister is a very giving person. She'd eagerly share her last drop of red wine or last crumb of a chocolate cookie with me. But if you ask Sissy to lend me her Sandwich Library Card, this is where her charitable and sweet nature suddenly turns quite sour. She'd rather let her hair air dry on a humid day then surrender her library card. And if you know how Sissy hates her curly hair and would self destruct if she lost her hairdryer, you'll understand.


Sissy is a model library patron and could perhaps be the Patron Saint of Libraries. Her card remains free and clear of any fines and if you ask her, even after a few drinks, she'll know exactly when each book is due.


I think she paid five cents back in 1998 when a blizzard immobilized the town and she couldn't snowshoe down to the village library to return her books. The thought of not returning her books on time sends her into a Class III panic attack. She thinks the library police will issue a warrant. Throw her in jail. Put her in the fake stocks in front of Dan'l Webster Restaurant on Main Street.


Her books are neatly stacked on her beside table and she doesn't bend back the pages. You'll find no hidden tissues or splatters of coffee or crumbs among her returns. She uses a pretty little bookmark with a lovely grosgrain ribbon, and the thought of eating or drinking anywhere near a book is a flagrant violation of her 11th Commandment- "thou shall not eat nor drink within ten feet of a library book."

Unfortunately, I never leaned that commandment in Sunday School, but instead learned that one way to really upset my teacher was to look out the window and watch all my Catholic friends riding their bikes and playing tag because they had been dragged to Mass on Saturday. This was one reason why I wanted so desperately to be Catholic-I wouldn't have to be stuck in church on Sunday. And I loved their cute plaid uniforms, too.

I've had a problem with library books since the 4th grade when I left a towering stack of brand new library books out in a summer thunderstorm. There was nothing worse that seeing that wet stack of paper, the pages stuck together, my heart beating faster than the torrential rains that poured down from the skies and ruined my books. And when I tried to gently pry the pages apart, they simply disintegrated. Luckily, my father paid for the books and although I was grateful at the time, his generosity set in motion a disturbing yet unintentional trend that continues to this day and in fact has woven itself into the next generation of Jones', saddling them with this literary curse.

If only my father had made me pay for the books, forced me to sell lemonade on the street corner, rake leaves in the fall and shovel snow in the winter -this debt would have crossed a few seasons- perhaps I would have learned one of those invaluable life altering lessons. But instead, he settled the bill with the snippy librarian and I was free to abuse my borrowing privileges once again.

Over and over, I would lose books or return them well past their due date. I've always thought of the due date as the suggested date of return and that's where I got into trouble. Plus, one or two pennies a day that was levied against my card didn't break the bank. Eventually, I'd return the books, either shoving them through the book deposit slot well after the library ladies had loosened their buns or quickly emptying the book bag on the returns counter and fleeing into the fiction section, getting lost between the rows of Hoffman and Picoult.

When it was time to borrow a new load, I would hand over my card, they'd scan it and look pensively at the hidden screen, followed by a shake of the head, a purse of the lips, a genuine scowl of disdain.

"I know. I owe a fine. I have a terrible problem with returning books on time," I'd offer.



"Why don't you just take out one," suggested more than one librarian.


"Well, you never know if you've got a good book so I am ensuring that I will have something good to read."


And then I'd pay my fine, usually with a check because I don't carry much cash on me and I'd always throw a bit extra in to satisfy some self imposed need for punitive damages. But when I discovered that our library's fines go directly to the Town, and not the library, I stopped putting in the extra few bucks and paid my fines right to the cent.

This terrible cycle repeated itself over the course of the last few decades until a new no-nonsense librarian marched into the library and decided to fix my wagon. Raising her eyebrows just above her glasses, she made it known that I was a repeat offender who needed a stiffer sentence- humiliation.

"You have a $25.00 fine," she said in a very loud voice. Patrons looked up from their reading, turned their heads to look at the dead-beat borrower.

"Umm...I don't have my wallet on me," I said.

"What? Don't you know it's illegal to drive without your license?"

I'm surprised she didn't call in the law. But she didn't let me take out any books.

That's when I borrowed the husband's card. And that's where the circle of my library life finally closed.

My library tote, stuffed with a load of woefully overdue books, had been riding in my car for weeks, getting stepped on by muddy cleats and crushed by gallons of laundry detergent and milk. When I finally got round to returning the books, the bag was a bit damp- well, it was dripping, like a faucet with a bad washer. One of my water bottles had leaked all over those darn books. Weren't those caps supposed to stay put?

The nightmare of the summer of 1971 had come full circle.

But this time, I was on the hook for well over a hundred dollars.

The library was quick to write off the books as damaged based on my rather dismal track record. I think books read better when they share the same character flaws as the characters inside. But the library didn't agree. So I am left without a card. I can look, but I can't borrow. I can wander the great stacks, running my hands over the spines of Sally Gunning's, The Widow's War and Cormac McCarthy's The Road, but they never will ride the streets of Sandwich with me.

My sister, my neighbor, teen boy, teen girl and close friends have their cards under key- whenever I ask if they'll lend me their cards, they laugh.

I guess I should feel lucky.....the library hasn't figured out that a Library Wall of Shame might actually work. And the Police haven't issued a warrant like they did to that poor girl I saw on Inside Edition who had one overdue book. Based on my record, they'd have to call in the SWAT team. And I'm pretty sure they're a bit busy these days.

The Accidental Vegetarian- A man hankering for a cow

When my then 10 year old daughter came home from school and informed us that she had become a vegetarian during lunch period, I thought, Okay, this is just a passing phase, and it will soon join the long tattered list of has- beens, like Thomas the Tank, Beanie Babies, LL Bean Backpacks and Orlando Bloom.

Well, four years later and teen girl is still is a vegetarian, though that is up to interpretation since she hates beans, tofu, tempeh , nuts and most leafy greens. Teen boy says she is really a carbotarian.

And since he recently came out as a vegetarian, he's been keeping a close eye on his sister's vegetable intake. Of course, he says he is merely concerned that she is getting her vitamins, but since they've been squabbling for at least a decade now, I know it's just ammunition. He loves nothing more than to point out her poor eating habits while he is downing giant leaves of Kale, nibbling on sunflower seeds or simmering seitan on the stove.

Teen boy has embraced his new non-meat lifestyle- he's always in the kitchen whipping up all sorts of funky smelling meat alternatives. A few weeks back, he rolled out some home made vegan sausage- the unusual molecules of that particular odor are still adhered to my nasal hairs- I think it may be permanent.

I think if you are going to go vegetarian, why bother making vegetarian sausage? Vegetarian sausage is like calling someone a liberal conservative- it just doesn't make sense. Just ask my meat loving husband, whose consumption of cattle has whithered in the last few months to a few crumbs of burger here and there. Dreams of burgers ,steaks and rib now teasingly dance through his nocturnal landscape because of instead of cooking two separate meals, I've thrown out the meat, and have been going nearly vegetarian.

This has been a tough transition for the old guy who could happily have a hunk of beef on his plate- and nothing else. He'll chew through cartilage, veins, sinew- all without missing a beat- but spits out stalks of vegetables and hides them under his plate.

I'm all for eating healthy and reducing our meat consumption...but sometimes only a steak will satisfy that primal red meat flesh tearing urge that has followed us for millions of years, from the woolly mammoth to the wild turkey. I can't think of many times I openly salivated for a slab of tofu or a head of Romaine. And never can my husband.

When I asked the meat deprived husband if he would be coming in for dinner this evening, he replied, "Only if there is a side of a cow on my plate."

So tonight, I'm whipping up two meals- a roast chicken for the hubby and tuscan kale soup for Teen boy. Teen girl, the one who brought vegetarism into our family, says she'll just have mashed potatoes.

Those Good Old Sunday Drives.....

My sister and I took a drive on Sunday afternoon- it was the quintessential late September day, the weather was sublime and the husbands were quite happy doing what most husbands do on a Sunday in Fall- they were parked in front of the television watching football.



We got to talking about how we were dragged into the car every Sunday for our infamous family drives along the Hudson Valley and beyond. We never wanted to go, made such big fusses that I can't believe our parents didn't bind us with duct tape, throw us into the trunk and dump us on a deserted country road.



At that time, our parents both smoked. Dad puffed on filter less Pall Mall's, Mom sucked down Lucky Strikes like a machine, the little bits of tobacco sticking to her red lipstick. The windows were rolled up tight, the radio was tuned to a news radio station and there was an uncomfortable divide between the two heads that rose above the headrests.



Sissy and I sat on the back seat, our heads leaning against the cool windows, the air filled with wispy clouds of tobacco, usually getting car sick as my father took curves without letting up on the gas. He didn't like to stop, so cries of "we have to go to the bathroom" were left unanswered, so too were the "we're hungry, we're thirsty, we're car sick," whines from the back seat.



The only action that caused a reaction was when we got into a scrap- whether it was hair pulling, pinching or name calling. And that was just a matter of miles. (I still smart from Sissy's pinches- and wonder how she was able to get such a thin layer of skin between her thumb and forefinger nails and squeeze so hard that she left two perfectly formed nail divets in my arm)



I was the queen of hair pulling and Sissy's hair was an easy target. Her wild frizzy mane of ginger hair took up half of the back seat so grabbing it and giving it a fast hard tug, without our parents seeing it, was quite easy. It didn't leave any marks and because her hair was anchored in her scalp with cement, I never had any evidence wound around my fingers.



Once we started fighting, our mother would turn her head and glare, her browns eyes ringed with fire. When that failed, she'd throw her hand over the seat and start slapping, head firmly affixed to the front. Random slaps, in a rapid fire sequence, would eventually strike their target.



Our yelps (and we did this for effect) usually meant the end of that Sunday's drive. My father would swing into a rest area or someone's drive way(Mom would inevitably scold him for pulling into a stranger's drive and to this day Sissy and I feel as though we are violating people's personal space by turning into an unknown driveway) and then we knew we were in trouble. Occasionally, he'd smack our legs, but most often, he'd drive home, his foot glued to the gas pedal. (Mom would yell at him to slow down)



We can't figure out why we spent years doing these family drives when no one seemed to like them. We wished we were back home, racing our Schwinn's up and down our street, playing kickball in the neighboring fields or torturing each other by sticking blades of grass up each other's nose.

Did our parents enjoy these family drives? Did they just tune us out, lost in their own thoughts? Were they trying to escape from their suburban lifestyle?

Whatever their reasons, these drives were our own traveling horror show. And we were the reluctant stars.

And even to this day, I have a soft spot for B horror films...and Sunday drives.

Working from home...with the husband.....

I was enjoying watching teen daughter's high school soccer game yesterday, under a blue and white marbled sky, the bright sun sparkling over the fields, the perfect mid September afternoon, when I got chatting with another mom whose pilot husband hasn't flown in 27 days.

"I know," I said, nodding my head, with an understanding only those whose husbands work from home or those whose significant other has a fluid schedule could know. And of course, those whose husbands are retired. I've seen their spouses weary faces as they push their shopping carts down the narrow aisles, the husbands either following them so closely, stepping on their aerosoles or wandering off without a word, only to meet up in the check out with identical items. "You really must stick with me or you'll have to stay home," they want to shout.

My husband works from his home office, a mere twenty feet away from my mine, and although I love the guy dearly, living and working in such close proximity should earn me a medal of freedom or at least get me on the fast track to heaven.

When he is out on calls, and he insists he loves being on the road, I regress to that 15 year old teenager whose parents have gone out of town. No, I don't hit the liquor cabinet (unless it's after 5.00pm) or text my buddies, but I do turn up the radio and have an extra bounce to my step, a wider smile on my face, a gleam in my eyes. I am tempted to throw the door open and scream, "I'm free. I'm free!"

I work better when the house is quiet- just the gentle hum of the fridge, the quirky meow of my cat, but since the husband sticks around the house more than my infirm 16 year old cat, it's never quiet. The hubby,for a British fellow, is very loud, though he swears that he floats around the house, and I am the one who is the loud American. Everything he does or owns generates excessive noise from his squeaky chair to his shredder to his heavy footed gait, sending missiles of extraneous noise right down into my open air office. Even if he closes the door to his office, the noises blast right through the drywall.

Add that to how drawn out his morning routine has become, and you'll nod when you see me with an Adavan drip.

It takes the hubby forever to get showered. Up at 5.30, he heads straight into his office and despite my attempts at getting him cleaned up at a reasonable hour, he'll end up hoping into the shower in the late morning, and working often until mid afternoon in the green monster- his forest bathrobe. He loves his green tattered robe and says that nothing dries him off better than lounging in the terry towelling for hours- or me using a washcloth.

It's holey, has smears of toothpaste running down the arms and backside (hey teens, can you use a towel instead of 'the robe," please?) and hasn't seen the spin cycle for months. I can only hope that those damn fibers give way and he is finally forced to throw it on one of our bonfires. I am sure, if he could get away with it, he'd drive off and see his clients in 'the robe.' I've told him that I will bury him in his robe, but he has no shame. Besides, he says he is getting cremated.

So while he is rocking back and forth in his squeaky office chair, his bare feet perched on his desk, the robe splayed open for all to see, it's the steady stream of noises that really drive me mad.

I rue the day when he discovered the joys of shredding. Want to pry out my deepest, darkest secrets? Lock me in a room and put the shredder on automatic. I'd break within minutes. Give you my passwords, my secret crab cake recipe, even my beloved cat, James Jones. That man loves the shredder. He could shred all day and eagerly piles stacks of used paper and junk mail in box, waiting for the box to fill so he can fire up the shredder. He even likes getting catalogues, now. I've resorted to throwing away as much paper as I can, quickly balling it up and pushing it into the bowels of the kitchen waste bin. I know it's not environmentally sound, but I place a premium on my sanity, and so do the teens.

Now, I know this may read a bit harsh, but really, I do love the guy but spouses need a bit of space. I remember when my friend told me that her husband worked from home and how it drove her crazy. I really couldn't relate. "Really," I asked as she showed me his study, a desk next to the furnace in the unfinished basement. I raised my eyebrow, feeling sorry for the poor guy whose desk was only steps from the litter box. I'd have him upstairs. I'd never put my husband in the basement. Never.

But now, several years later, our basement is looking like a nice spot to relocate the shredder, the chair, the man in the robe.

You know it's time to get glasses when...

The script for reading glasses has been floating in my handbag for nearly a year. It has a big set of red lip prints on the back, Revlon British Red and a latte stain across the front. And every time I happen to notice that damn script, I think, hell, I should just go down to the eye glass store and get myself a pair of funky specs. But when I try on the drugstore varities, I look like a man- my father -and that's a scary visual for a 47 year old woman- plus, my crow's feet are magnified.

My eyes are getting bad. Really bad. Books, newpapers, the numbers on my Blackberry all seem to run together or disappear into a black line of fuzz. I can't even read the little yellow phone books anymore and am still trying to figure out why on earth they are chopping down trees to print something that their demographics can't even read- the last book that was dropped outside on my lawn was printed using an 8 font-the husband, who doesn't require reading glasses yet, had trouble reading the number.


Then there's the little mishap with trial size hotel shampoos. I still love those little samples and always take a few extras because I am too cheap to buy Aveda products and I like getting things for free even though I know they really aren't free. If you do the math and add up the room rate, they end up costing $6.00 per sample, not such a great deal. After a recent trip, I began noticing that my hair seemed a bit dull and had a peculiar texture and feel. Was I getting sick? As a medical writer, I know just enough about every illnesses to make me think that I've got every disease known to man. Could I have a thyroid condition? Do I have a deficiency? Or could it be the dreaded "C"?


"Mom, what's body lotion doing in the shower?" teen daughter asks


"What? That's not body lotion, it's shampoo."


"Don't think so. Anyway, it's almost gone."


I raced to the bathroom with a magnifying glass in hand. "Pear scented luxury body lotion designed to leave one's body soft and supple ."


That's why my hair felt like my 16 year old cat's fur. I'd been using body lotion as shampoo for the last week. And it didn't even leave my hair soft.


Now I don't profess to have a PhD in chemistry but if I had designed a body lotion I would make sure it would work on hair, too. And if I had a marketing degree, I'd make sure that those little samples had big letters on them. A big "S" for shampoo, a big "L" for lotion, a big "M" for mouthwash. They could even put it on the bottom of the bottle.



And if I designed measuring cups, I'd make sure that each cup had big raised numbers on them, not just on the bottom but all over the entire surface. I suspect the reason why I've had so many baking disaters isn't simply because I like to tinker around with recipes, it's because I can't see if I've put in a 1/2 cup or just a 1/3 cup of flour. They should adopt universal baking measurement standards: A one cup measurement has to have red somewhere in the design, 1/2 measurement has to have green, 1/4 has to have blue and 1/3 has to have yellow.

The only thing I would have to remember is the color coded measuring guide. And I think I'm okay for a few years- if I can only remember to take my fish oil caplets.

Waiting for the Fang Fairy

As I sat in the oral surgeon's extraction chair, I wondered what he would do if I simply unclasped the bib and bolted out the door. But as an obedient patient, I sat there clenching the armrests with unparalleled force and vowed never again to do a " preemptive extraction."

The tooth didn't really hurt, but it did make what my dentist calls 'noise'- like the rumblings of a volcano letting me know that sooner or later, most likely on a Saturday night after knocking back a few cocktails, it would erupt, making the pain of childbirth feel like an eyebrow waxing.

My sister had an old wisdom tooth removed last year and told me that it was simple.

"He numbed it and gave it a tug and out it came. It was nothing."

A few pinches of novocaine here and there and I loosened my grip, even crossed my legs and lowered my shoulders. This was going to be easy.

He took his tools and began to loosen the old gal. But she wasn't going down with a fight.

"Hmmm...the tooth is just crumbling...not an easy extraction," the surgeon mumbled. "Get me the longest sharpest hooked tool that you can find and some rope" was what I thought he said. It was late in the day and he was obviously not in the mood for a difficult extraction.

Well, that man dug and hammered and chiseled that damn tooth out for over 45 minutes. Had I known that the tooth was quite comfortable in my jaw, I would have left her there for a few more months. But as I age, the more angst ridden I become...the 'what if's' begin to outnumber the 'what the hell's' and before I had given it any real thought, I was sitting in his chair.

"You've got strong roots."

"Well, thank you," I said. "I drink milk."

"Hmm...this is when you really don't want them," he muttered.

I felt like the roots were wrapped around my skull, like a twisted ancient hemlock. After 45 minutes, the old fang, looking like a pile of cremated remains, was strewn across the paper lined tray.

"You'll need this" the Doc said, handing me a script for Vicodin.

"Oh, I don't think so. I don't like taking those drugs."

"No, you'll need it. It was a tough one." The nurse raised her eyebrows.

So I filled the script and popped a tablet. And within a half hour, this gentle feeling of contentment washed over me, like a soft breeze on a sticky day. I looked at my two teens who were busy fighting with one another to worry about Mom and the hole in her jaw. And their fighting didn't even bother me. They could have been hanging from the light fixtures and I would have thought, "Wow, what wonderfully athletic children I have." The house could have been set afire and I would have stared wistfully at the flames.

I've renamed Vicodin the "I Love My Family Pills."

If we had everyone popping these little guys, there wouldn't be any fighting -ever. George and Saddam would have been running in the desert hand in hand instead of tearing down statues and Rush and Keith would be having a mancation together.

As I sat at the dinner table, admiring my offspring, my daughter asked if I was going to put the old tooth under my pillow for Gwendolyn, the tooth fairy.

"She'd need a Dustbuster to vacuum up all the fragments," I said. No, that tooth went into the garbage bin along with the other dozens of old fangs that were yanked out yesterday.

Getting old really stinks.

The other day I asked teen daughter if she wanted to see a movie- she looked up at me, with one ear bud in, the other swinging loosely by her shoulder and said, "I love you, Mom, but I don't want to hang out with you."
"Why?" I asked.
"Mom, I don't want to hang out with a middle aged woman."
"What?" I said. To me, middle aged is old and although I am 47, I am not compost material yet- I wear low rise jeans, funky fashion sneakers, keep myself relatively trim, listen to "in" music and have a devilish sense of humor. Since I'm not wearing reading glasses and can't see worth a damn, I don't notice the wrinkles spreading across my cheeks, forehead, lips, hands, legs, feet and toes.
"Well, still, I'd rather go with my friends. "M's" mother is taking us."
"What?
"Yeah, she's cool."
"So I'm not cool?" I asked.
"Well......"
"What do you mean I 'm not cool," I said. Your friends think I am cool. They tell me all the time."
I end the conversation because I see where it is going. This is just another natural snip of the mother/child umbilical cord where your teen identifies more with her peers and their mothers than you. My friends thought my mom, "Dot" ,was pretty hip, always reminding me how lucky I was that she wore cowl neck sweaters and clogs, but I didn't see it until a few years later when I began raiding her closet and found that I could just about wriggle into her designer clothes.

I can still recall cringing when she'd pull up at school in her scarlet red El Dorado, a convertible with a gleaming white leather interior, that ubiquitous ciggie squeezed between her slender fingers, a pair of oversized sunglasses framing her ginger hair, screeching, "Come On, Get in!"

I'd make her drop us off at dances as far as possible from the entrance- "stop here Mom," I'd yell. God forbid if anyone saw that I had an actual mother. I wasn't alone- everyone did this.


Looking back, "The Dot" , as she was called, was a pretty hip Mom even when she was dancing to Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" with a pair of legwarmers, a Merit clamped between her slender fingers, waving an apricot sour above her head with her other hand. She'd let me skip school to hit the sales, taking me out to lunch afterwards. She never minded when I had a household full of teenagers, and even let my friends and I (at 14) stay in a separate hotel room when she took us to Florida- a big mistake-

Yeah, Mom, I'll survive, too and one day teen daughter will realize that I'm not so out of date.