POPULAR...I KNOW ABOUT POPULAR!

If you see your name in this post, don't worry. It's not you. It's another (fill in the blank.)  ;)

A few years back, a group of young girls walked around the neighborhood with a yellow tablet, surveying and scoring the local children as they tallied who was “popliar” and who was not. My six year old daughter came home sobbing, as they had declared she was “not”. And I knew exactly how she felt, because my entire young life had been spent in pleading with the heavens that I could belong to that ephemeral group.

I recall sitting cross legged in the bed of the little pick-up truck, a couple of feet away from Cindy and Shannon. We were heading to a spook alley, then a video party in somebody’s basement.

They were popular. 

I was trying to be. 

It wasn’t going so well.

Junior high turned out to be a far cry from my elementary school glory days. In sixth grade, my boyfriend gave me his lunchtime orange every day, I never warmed the bench in P.E. Dodge Ball and pretty much I had set the school standard for artwork, on account of my mad coloring skills. 

I won Reflections contests, perfected the ideal tilt for penmanship and had cheated my way into straight A’s—not proud of that one, but it is what it is, people, and now it’s too late to prosecute. Anyway, I think it’s safe to say I was kind of a big deal, thus, so were my expectations for the future. 

Unfortunately, as I pushed open the front doors of North Davis Jr. High, some sort of black magic wind whipped me in the face and all at once, I tripped on an imaginary rock, my nose started to bleed and awkward conversation spilled like chunks of rancid milk from my mouth. When the clock struck 8:00 am, I was left with one glass slipper and the realization that I was now subject to the Girls from South Weber—and my, but they were a cruel master. 

Leap over 600+ days of social misery and pain, and there we are, 9th grade, sitting in the back of the truck. Shannon eyeballs me, leans into Cindy and whispers, “Why is Lisa here? I can’t stand her!” Cindy answers back, “I felt sorry for her.”

And I’m looking right at them.

Shannon realizes her voice has carried that very, very substantial two feet, and says to me, “Not you. Another Lisa.”

Oh, well, okay then. As long as it’s another Lisa. Man, I’d hate to be her. So glad I’m the other one.

You’ll be surprised to find out the evening was less than pleasant. Agonizing, really, as it was made crystal clear that I was unwelcome...even though I was the other Lisa. Seems I wouldn’t sanctify their cruddy decisions, which earned me the title: Goody Two Shoes. I called my mom from their home, under the guise of checking to see how long I could stay. We had a special code—it went something like this:

“Hi, Mom. Can I stay longer?”

“Do you want to come home?”

“Yes, I really do. Please?”

“Okay. You have to come home right now.” 

“MOM! Gosh! That’s not fair! Why can’t I stay longer?”

“We’re eating a big pile of candy and watching Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Love you.”

Then I hung up the phone, put on a petulant expression, and told them how mad I was that I had to go home, all the while beyond grateful that my mother didn’t need to be popular, too. 

Now, if this were a Disney episode, by the end of the hour, the mean girls would have had pig guts or something spilled on their heads, and I would have waltzed away in the arms of the cutest boy on campus, because he could see past my awkward facade and know that someday, I would be a world famous humor columnist for The Islander. But you and I both know that punishment and reward are seldom meted out in a timely matter. 

I’d like to say I now wish them all well, but I don’t really. I am yet to be perfected in this life, my friends. And that is why there is a lopsided grin plastered on my face whenever I see their pictures on Facebook with faux wood panelling and black velvet Elvis paintings in the background. Bless their big haired hearts.

Which leads us to the here and now, as we find ourselves, once again, about to embark on the Back to School journey. Whether you loathe it or love it, there are universal truths to bear in mind; seeds planted will eventually bear fruit, whether good or evil; parents, your days of popularity are long past—this is the time for you to be the bad guy; and lastly, if living well is the best revenge, having a column to name names is a close second. 

Worried? Well...you should be. (wink)

FINGERNAILS ON A CHALKBOARD

A few more reasons I am so grateful there is no such thing as reincarnation.

FINGERNAILS ON THE CHALKBOARD

I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted, on account of I’ve been squeezing my tush and pointing my toes for weeks now, watching Olympic gymnastics. And yes, as a matter of fact, I was trained as a competitive tumbler back in the 70’s. Funny you should mention it. ‘Course, that was before I realized how much I loathed the nervous stomach and hyperventilation that accompanied competitions...which led me to pronounce I didn’t want to compete anymore,,,which led my coach to reply, “You either compete, or you quit,”...which leads to the rest of this story being told by my bat wing biceps and spongy abdomen. 

But it wasn’t just the stress of the tournaments—the other girls in my class were mean to me. It was either because they were jealous, or I was fingernails on a chalkboard—not sure which. But here, you decide: So like, when our coach said, “You need to have placed first, second or third at ONE of the county competitions in order to compete at State,” many girls lowered their heads in disappointment. But I raised my hand, feigned innocence and asked, “Teacher? What if I placed in ALL of the other competitions? Can I still go to State?” 

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEECH! 

Yeah, I know. If I could go back in time, I’d slap my own face.

But it’s okay, because I made it up to them when I sliced my head open on a trampoline trick gone wrong. As the blood poured in rivulets down my temples, and I was led away to the emergency room, the whole class was paid in full. They earned it.

Those were some painful years. Excruciating, really. It was also around the time they pulled me out of my 5th grade class so that I could partake of the humiliation called, “Speech therapy.” Apparently, I was afflicted with a tongue thrust, and needed to be taught how to talk. Of course, everyone knew that only babies needed speech therapy. Babies and me. So I shamefully sat at the table with the toothless, drooling five year olds, and pretended I was just there to show them how it was done. 

When my friends asked me why they’d taken me out of class, I lied of course. I told them they needed my help with these youngsters and that I was kind of like a teachers aid. This was all well and good until at the end of my stint, the therapist accompanied me back to my classroom and called them to order: 

“I’D LIKE ALL OF YOUR ATTENTION, PLEASE! WE ARE HAPPY TO ANNOUNCE THAT LISA WOOD HAS JUST GRADUATED FROM SPECIAL NEEDS SPEECH THERAPY AND NO LONGER HAS A LISP! I’D LIKE EVERYONE TO CONGRATULATE HER AND GIVE HER A ROUND OF APPLAUSE!” 

Aaaaannnnd there you go. She couldn’t possibly have known the collateral damage she’d just caused. 

I don’t recall much after that, and maybe it’s because Barbra Streisand had it right when she sang “what’s too painful to remember, we simply choose to forget.” I just know that the retainer I got about a week later didn’t help matters much. 

Later that spring, my teenaged aunt came to visit for a few days. The doorbell rang on a Friday night, and lo and behold, there were two cute 18 year old boys standing on the porch. Immediately I sensed they had come to see me. I was subtle, at first—laying across their laps, interrupting every conversation, showing them my wallet full of money that I had earned babysitting. But then I pulled out the big guns: I had just received a pink shirt with my astrological sign emblazoned on the front. As they sat on the couch, trying to flirt with Heather, I stood directly in front of them, pointed at my shirt and said, “I’M A VIRGO! That means I’m lovable, sensitive, frisky...” and continued on, reading the description covering my chest. 

They looked at me, then at each other, then stood in unison. One of them took me by the wrists, the other grabbed my feet, and they physically carried me out into the front yard, swung me back and forth a couple of times, and then let me fly through the air, as they ran inside and locked me out of the house.

My love for them grew cold. Crazy fools. They don’t know what they missed out on.

Well, anyway, looking back, I realize that in order to have our hearts blessed, we must first have them crushed. And sure, I’d rather have been a spectator than a participant in these episodes, but it seems traumatic lessons have incredible staying power. 

So learn from my mistakes—don’t lie, don’t annoy, and always squeeze your bum and point your toes. And for heaven’s sake, NEVER brag, or mean girls will smile while your head is bleeding. 

Those big jerks.

Class dismissed.

BURN, BABY, BURN!

Forgot to potht the latht couple of articlth. Too bithy lithping. Bratheth will do that, you know.

BURN, BABY, BURN!

I think we can all agree that there is nothing quite so sweet, quite so savory, or quite so sanitary as a paper cup full of homemade root beer brewed in your own front yard toilet. Yes sir, that right there is something special. And for those of you lucky enough to have been a guest at a Red Davis Burn, you know the ambrosia of which I speak. For the rest of you, well, I just feel sad. Which is why I’m going to regale you with a little something I like to call, “Tales from the Wood Panelling Days of Mid-seventies Syracuse.”

First of all, it’s important to understand that everything in the 1970’s seemed a little bit grimy. I don’t know why—perhaps it was some sort of law—I just know that even Sesame Street looked gross. I actually remember—before the “Indian with a tear” commercial—driving down the road and asking if it was okay to throw this or that out of the window. From my recollection (which is vague and exaggerated), only glass and metal were off limits. All the rest was considered proper, because at some point in time, it was likely to disintegrate. Never mind that it might take 100 years. The point was, EVENTUALLY, that hamburger wrapper would become dust in the wind.

A Red Davis Burn was no different—it was a study in awesome filth. They had a permanent outhouse installed in their front lawn, a fire pit dug out of the flower garden for wiener roasting, and a toilet bowl of dry ice and homemade root beer stirred with the end of a plunger...probably not the good end...if there is a good end. I think it’s safe to say there were no permits acquired, probably because there were no permits RE-quired. Plus, the Chief of Police would drive past slowly with his hand out the window waiting for somebody to bring him a cup.

Red’s real name was Richard—which I only found out a few years back. I assumed his parents just knew his face would end up being kind of...well...red. Of course, having an uncle named Sput seemed perfectly natural to me, too. Never questioned the notion that my grandparents looked upon their newborn babe and proclaimed, “We shall christen him SPUT!” Turns out, he was born on the day the Russian Sputnik went into space and his given name is just plain old William. Which if you ask me, is a real shame.

Anyway, the call of the Burn howled it’s way through the split level subdivision, and we all met up in the streets at dusk, dragging along our aluminum lawn chairs, as we made our way to the festivities. And though I can’t recall specifics regarding individual fashion sense, I do remember a giant sea of mint green and sky blue polyester. And tough skins. Also comb-overs. And ill conceived mustaches that might now label you a child molester, but we didn’t know better back then.

We’d spend the evening laughing and chatting and swatting at mosquitos while swigging down the tasty brew. The very genteel Bernice Wilcox asked my dad if it was safe to drink. He shook his head no, so she fed hers to the bushes, even as he finished off his third glass. Every grin showed gold caps, and every kid wore bare feet. The children picked at scabs on their knees as they squatted and teetered on the edge of the fire pit, while guardian angels stood watch. With the crowd being by and large mostly LDS, there was a fair amount of home teaching being done, with maybe even a temple recommend interview thrown into the mix, because we were more relaxed back then, friends. It was a simpler time...a simpler, dirtier, spirit of the law sort of time. Which we shall never see the likes of again.

The night would usually end when the sky was dark, the fire died out and our fingers and faces were sticky with marshmallows and soot. We’d bid farewell, fold up our chairs, and with hair smelling of smoke, walk down the middle of the street as we made our way home, happy in the knowledge that the swamp coolers would have kept the air cool and damp for when we entered our unlocked doors.

Red and Esther and nearly all of the Davis family have now gone on to greener pastures, bless their hearts. I would imagine they’ve dug a fire pit on their property, roasted some wieners and filled a few toilet bowls with extract and ice. And likely, those angels who stood watch are now gathered around in their lawn chairs, laughing and cackling with gold capped teeth, recalling days gone by and the kids they scooped and saved from burning embers.

I kind of think that’s what Heaven must be like—a summer night in a safe neighborhood. With unlocked doors, ice cold root beer, and friends and family who have seen you laugh like no one is watching, yet still chose to build their mansions next to yours...

...one more reason to live worthy of such a place.

CAN'T DRINK DIET COKE

I'm traumatized. I have braces. Well, Invisaligns, actually, but it's all a lie. Braces are braces are braces, people. The sooner you realize that, the less likely you'll be to make my same mistake. I have snaps on my teeth, have to pry the trays off with a crochet hook and can't drink Diet Coke, or the trays will fill up with brown liquid. Also, the trays take on a certain "odor" that cats and dogs find attractive. Guess what else cats and dogs find attractive? Their own poop. One guess as to what that certain odor resembles? Hand in hand with THAT news, is the realization that I can't chew gum because it sticks to the trays. So thank your lucky stars that you're only reading this and not standing next to me while I breathe the words.

It all started with what we like to call, "crowding". The teeth in the back were sick to death of wondering what was going on up front, and finally just started shoving their way forward like patrons on a bus trying to get off at their stop. But see, that doesn't work with teeth, because it seems nobody has enough room to scoot out of the way for the back seat teeth, and so they stand their ground, which ends with all hell breaking loose and nobody standing in an orderly line anymore.

Now the symptoms of this "crowding" are that one of your previously straight teeth starts to look gray in every picture (pre-photoshop, of course) and you begin to wonder what the heck is going on? And then you look down at the apple you just bit into, and sure enough, half your teeth have gone rogue.

But contrary to my normal vanity, I'd have been okay with this, if it wasn't for those dang back seat dwellers that started messing with my bite. Remember, I have about 40 something years left on this earth and there are steaks to be masticated. Something that can only be done if the bus drivers come back there yelling and threatening.

So that's what we did yesterday. Told the rear to sit down, shut up and look pretty. And if they don't, they'll be thrown out on their ear and replaced with a titanium post and implants. That shut 'em up pretty good.

It's going to take about a year to get them settled back down. In the meantime, if you see me with a crochet hook and notice my teeth are brown and I have a lisp, just be kind and look the other way.

And in return, I'll do my best not to breathe on you.

Win/win.

THAT CASTLE AIN'T GONNA BUILD ITSELF

I'm sorry. I have NOTHING in my head to entertain you with, except for what I submit every couple of weeks to the newspaper. 'Member how I used to be funny a lot more? Yeah, that was a long time ago. Sorry you missed it, if you're just now joining us...anyway, here is the latest—

I lost my head and helped my daughter address 50 invitations to her 12th birthday last week. I know. But it could just as easily have been 100, because you simply cannot leave anyone out, or it will hurt their feelings, and plus, they’re friends with so-and-so, and she’ll tell them I’m having a party and he invited me to his and we were friends in kindergarten and we once waved to each other at recess and...you get the idea. 

I won’t bore you with all the details, because many of you are already familiar with trying to corral B-B’s when they’re dumped out of the tube...from 100 feet in the air...while wearing a catcher’s mitt on each hand...at the roller skating rink. But just know that if your daughter came home with a welt across her face in the shape of a licorice, gummy worm, taffy stick or circus cookie, I am truly, truly sorry, even if the perps (boys) are not. 

By the end of the evening, even my daughter agreed that this was the last one of it’s kind. And then I crawled into bed and dreamed a dream of days gone by—her fifth birthday...with little baby fairy invitations, glittering calligraphy and pink chiffon swaying from tree branches as angel girls danced and giggled in the summer air, signaling the end of a ten year reign for guns, swords, burps and flatulence in a house full of boys. Of course, this was before she announced what she wanted to be for Halloween—a dead football player covered in blood and wearing a metal claw—but I digress. 

I think I thought it would always be that way. Just like I thought there would always be diapers. And baby food. And souring milk left in forgotten bottles. And there would always be tantrums. And sand in the tub. And wet swimming suits molding in the corner under a towel. Then standing in the check-out line at the grocery store, an older woman turned to me and said, 

“Enjoy this time, dear. It goes by so quickly.” 

Of course, I couldn’t really hear her, because I was busy dangling one son over my shoulders by his heels while another was wrapped like a spider monkey around my head. And as I drove home, flailing at the back seat to swat them away from each other, I pondered the sentiment;

“Enjoy this time, dear.” Impossible. Three of four children had spent the night in our bed, waking us at five minute intervals to vomit. One son had poured a gallon of gasoline over his head while the other boy stood screaming in the shed, paralyzed with fear over some sort of creature climbing up his shirt. And my oldest had been sent to the office, again, for “not recognizing authority”. 

“It goes by so quickly.” Does it? Does it really? Because that would be okay with me. No, seriously. How soon can bed time and nap time arrive? Can it still be considered date night if we leave at noon? When will you be big enough to ride all the rides at Lagoon? When will you be old enough to babysit? When will you get yourself ready for church and school and practice piano on your own? 

Turns out, the answer is, “Before you’re ready.” 

I remember my father telling me a few years back, “If I’d known how wonderful you would turn out, I would have been kinder to you when you were a child.” 

My laughing response was, “Dad, if you’d been kinder to me when I was a child, I wouldn’t have turned out to BE so wonderful.” 

Or so humble.

Which illuminated the reality that there really is a time for every season. And most of young parenting is about digging trenches and building towers. Here and there you’ll take a moment to pause and stand back for a change in perspective—enjoying the creation—but if that is all you do, the castle will sit, half finished and decaying in the elements, while you admire it’s partial beauty. It is only after the finished product is set aglow with the warmth of a fading sun...and memory...that you see the true magnificence of what you created, albeit through a soft focus lens. 

Which is why God created grandparents. Brilliant.

And one day, I will be that woman who pats your arm in the grocery store aisle and says, “Bless your heart, enjoy this time, dear. It goes by so quickly.” Which is your signal to put down the shovel and stand back for just a few minutes to appreciate what you’re building. But not for too long, because that castle ain’t gonna build itself.

I WANNA GO BACK!

So remember how I said I'd make up for only posting columns? Yeah, I lied. Don't look so surprised—you knew what I was when you started reading my blog. Well, maybe not when you started, but it had to have become clear when you returned. And yet you did...which continues to stump me.  ;) And for which I bow in gratitude. Two fingered heart pound kiss. Now, I give you my latest submission:

WE WERE POLLYANNA

Some of you may know me from my days playing Betsy Ross. You remember—the theme was The Bicentennial. The year, 1976. There I sat, in a wagon, being jerked in circles around the grassy field of Syracuse Elementary as I pulled my make believe needle in and out...in and out, of the beautiful flag that lay across my very important lap. And okay, sure, I was one of about 300 children with wagons and bikes decorated in red, white and blue crepe paper, but my mother had made me a mop cap, so I’m pretty sure you saw this star being born. And if not, well...I’m sad for you.

Such were the original Syracuse Heritage Days parades. But back then, we called it SYRACUSE STAKE FUN DAY! The LDS Stake was the host, but the entire city was welcome and came. You couldn’t help but know about it either, because just as dawn broke on the beautiful June Saturday, the entire town was jolted awake by Duffy Palmer and friends—Chet Ashby, Kay Darrington, Buck Holbrook and others—driving through every single neighborhood with a crackling bull horn, alerting us to the day’s activities. If the parent’s slept through the announcements, the kids’ screams of excitement would take it from there.

After the pancake breakfast and parade, ladies sold freshly baked bread, apple pies, taffy and fudge in the tented booths. Far as I knew, nothing was “Made in China”. It was made in our kitchens. Under the bowery, (where I kissed boys) men in aprons cooked scones, hamburgers and tacos and poured ice cold, foaming root beer. Everything cost a ticket, and you had to stand in line to buy them, which was AGONIZING for a child hearing the siren song of the fishing pond, because we just KNEW all of the good toys would be gone!

Assorted attractions covered the lawn—a mini train with wooden seats for the toddlers. Pooping horses all saddled up for a guided trot. The whirling wheel powered by burly men and teenaged boys where you’d climb in, strap yourself down and they’d spin you until their muscle power ran out. 

But the ride we anticipated more than aaaaaaaall the rest, was the “Bumpity Bump” ride. That’s right. The Bumpity Bump—an old gated flatbed truck with no shocks, lopsided wheels and car seats that lined the perimeter. Basically, the ride consisted of driving around the grassy field and bouncing. And by bouncing, I mean ALL HECK BROKE LOOSE, BODY PARTS FLEW THROUGH THE AIR, LITTLE KIDS RICOCHETED OFF EACH OTHER, BUMS LANDED ON HEADS, ELBOWS INTO EYE SOCKETS AND WE LAUGHED SO HARD WE ALMOST THREW UP! When it rolled to a stop and they opened the gate, we tumbled out in a sobbing, laughing, hysterical pile, covered in unidentified bodily fluids. Then we quickly searched around in each other’s skulls, found our two front teeth, plucked them out, and handed them to our mothers, as we ran back in line to do it all over again.

As the day wore on, they held the Old Timers’ Baseball Game. At bat were Thurgoods and Thaynes and Hamblins and Cooks. Fielders were Hansens, Barbers, Stokers and Briggs. Hand sewn quilts for auction lined the chain linked fence, and the rope pull with teenagers vs. men ended with the fathers dragging their kids across the length of the field until the rope snapped.

We eventually returned home, out of tickets, worn to a frazzle and covered in sunburnt flesh and snow cone syrup. Our mothers would bathe us, drain the water, and bathe us once again. Then, dressed in summertime pajamas and slicked back hair, we pulled our bean bags onto the front lawn, climbed under a blanket, and watched as twilight turned to pitch, which signaled the fireworks display. We’d oooo and ahhh and hope with each passing BOOM that this was not the finale.

They stopped with the bull horn when somebody on grave shift complained to the city. The homemade fudge likely ended when another became sick and pointed a finger of blame. The auctions and bumpity bumps and rope pulls and ball games ceased over the course of the years, as the Stake handed the reigns to the City, and the carnival came riding into town.

Boom. Silence. We didn’t realize until too late—the finale. 

But for those of us who remember the way it used to be...Oh, how we bless your heart, our old time Syracuse. Because every year, for one glorious day in June, Syracuse was Harrington Town. And we were Pollyanna.

“Oh what did you do in the summertime, when all the world was green? Did you sit by the stream (irrigation canal) and lazily dream on the banks as the clouds went by? Is that what you did? So did I....”

NO, I DON'T TRUST THEM!

I'm getting shameless, only posting with newspaper articles, rather than fresh blogs. You deserve better. I'll come up with something brand new soon, even if I have to make it up! (Like I've never done that before. Ha!) ;)

NO, I DON'T TRUST THEM

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I’m not a fan of my children having girlfriends or boyfriends in their teenaged years. And it’s not that I don’t trust them. It’s just that I don’t trust the flaming hormonal parade that IS them. So no, actually I DON’T trust them.

I’ve done my best to discourage any of their possible love interests from emotional and physical attachment. Through trial and error, I’ve found the most subtle way to do this is to put a pan of sulfur on to boil, when I know they’re coming over. This leads to a hasty departure and I click the lock behind them. Listen, a mother does what a mother has to do, people. 

This is not to say the battle is won. In fact, my daughter recently admitted to me that she is “going out”.  But truth be told, elementary crushes don’t really count, because the two of them only speak through interpreters, and haven’t made actual eye contact since they agreed to become linked. 

And to be honest, all of my kids had their fair share of early romance. My firstborn son was a chick magnet for older women, as he was deceptively tall. He loved this, until one summer afternoon when a flock of them came to call, then sat giggling like idiots on our couch. I hid behind the wall eavesdropping, as any good mother would do, when I heard this conversation extinguisher, “Sooooo...(uncomfortable silence)...any of you paint your toenails lately?” The discrepancy between his physical and intellectual development was suddenly so evident, their eyes rolled in unison and they all left in disgust.

My second son had an intense attraction to the daughter of a friend of mine, requiring me to drive him across town for play dates. He brought her valentines in October, and thousands of sketches of her standing under a rainbow. One day they were playing together in her backyard, and he accidentally let a shovel fly through the air, which whacked her in the head. She went wailing into her mother, and he climbed quietly into our car, never to return with honor again.  

My third son spent every waking moment polishing the skill of lifting one leg behind his head and hopping around on the other. When we received his 4th grade year book, we were surprised to see that every picture had been taken on the same day, as he was wearing identical clothing, and his foot was behind his left ear. Turns out nope. Not the same day. All different days. Apparently some girl had told him she liked that jacket and his trick was awesome. So he wore and performed them both. Every single day. Of the entire fourth grade. And never once do I recall washing that jacket.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Provost. So very sorry. 

‘Course, I myself had a bigamist love affair with Shawn and Joby from pre-school through fourth grade. I held them both spellbound, until Neely bewitched them by running across the playground faster than me, ending my reign of love in a pool of sweat and grass stains. But not before I was given my first real gift from a boy—a bottle of puce green finger nail polish. Regrettably, my mother deemed it, “hideous,” and made me throw it away. But I snuck it back out, painted my nails and admired my split-pea nubs all night long, lamenting how my mother just didn’t understand young love. 

This awakened in me a desire to find more boys willing to give me stuff, and I soon became loose and crafty with my promises, as I told my 5th grade boyfriend that, “I think I might like to kiss you behind the bowery. I love Atomic Fire Balls and Bubblicious gum.” (raised eyebrow and sideways grin)

Lucky for us all, that was about the time I entered the ugly stage. My disproportionate nose and love of sky blue eyeshadow kept me on the platform long past the curtain call, which may have been a tender mercy from heaven, saving me from myself.

Eventually I climbed back down to let someone else be ugly for a while, but by that time, I could buy my own candy and had little use for boys and boweries. It was also about that time I met my husband, and he gave me the best present ever, which I wear on my left hand. 

This brings us back to the reason I continue to interfere in the love lives of my teenaged children. There’s something greater on the horizon, and my job is to keep them distracted—even with rotten egg gas—until they’re able to see it on their own. And if this means I buy stock in Febreze and light matches like a caveman, well, so be it.

Bless my very determined heart.