Monday, December 31, 2012

O Come All Ye Braggers: Merry Christmas From Me and My Hot Masseuse

O Come All Ye Braggers:  Merry Christmas From Me and My Hot Masseuse

It really chaps my chestnuts when friends send Christmas cards including brag-letters about their amazing trips.  I never go anywhere cool.  My cultural awareness consists of the time Layna and I happened to be at Nuttin’ But Beer ‘n Wings on “Chug Around the World” night.

At Christmas, friends who are normal all year lose their humble filter and send beautiful pictures of themselves on gondolas in Venice and dubious ones of their kids hugging and smiling after the ten-hour flight.  Please.  I could Photoshop too, but I spend all my time not cleaning out from behind the dryer.                            

Here’s an example of holiday brag-mail:

“This year Barbie challenged Babs that if she maintained a 4.0 GPA all year, Barbie would reward her with a trip to Paris!  Her average was a 4.3 so the clan donned their berets and hopped on a plane!  They saw the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre, and Barbie discovered she loves champagne and that French people are very nice!   In fact, after several glasses of bubbly, she danced the Can-Can at the Moulin Rouge and several guys gave her very friendly hugs!  Ken bought some manly skinny jeans, and Kenny Jr. wants to pursue an internship in the French Quarter in ‘Nawlins!   Babs was disappointed that no restaurants served “French” fries though!  hee hee!” 


Reading it, I wished I’d skipped the cheesy burrito for lunch.  Just take away my wine and shoot me now if someone uses seven exclamation points in a row and says “donned,” because that’s kind of bizarro unless you’re J. K. Rowling or you collect Lord of the Rings paraphernalia.

Why can’t I take a week off and travel to beautiful places?  Because my fingers are flitting over a keyboard at midnight, editing my kid’s paper on why Zeus and Aphrodite wound up inside the Trojan Horse or something.  Meanwhile, the hands of Edwardo, the hot masseuse, are flitting over my friend’s back in Italy as he coos, “Would you like a leeetle more warm oil, cara mia?”


I shouldn’t be jealous.  I have everything I want.   I ruminate on my blessings driving back from my kid’s basketball camp in Chattanooga and shivering at the crack of dawn at soccer tournaments in Atlanta.  Sometimes I’m so overwhelmed with thankfulness that I’d hit my knees there on the sideline if my rear wasn’t stuck to the bleachers.

But honestly, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.  I’ll never have these days back with my children, but Turks and Caicos will always be there.  I’d rather watch my daughter play point guard than visit some Paradise Point.  I’d rather see her perfect her rise ball than watch a sunrise in Oahu.  And most of all, seeing my daughter’s embarrassment when I volunteer to have her Bible study at my house is priceless.  

In the future I might make it to an exotic location, or maybe even to Dollywood for a Christmas show.  But right now I’m enjoying watching my beautiful children put their old home-made (OK, school-made) ornaments on our tree.  Someday I’ll get to Italy.  And I’m definitely looking up Edwardo .

Saturday, December 22, 2012

Up, Up, and Away in a Manger

I'm reposting a short poem inspired by a picture of my son, at about 10 months old, sitting on Santa's lap.  He looked up at Santa as if he was wondering, "Who the heck are you?"  Then I started thinking about how very young children are probably confused about the whole Santa and Jesus thing.  Here's my interpretation of their confusion....

Mommy brought me in with her
To say hello to you.
But I’m not sure about this , Sir,
“Just what is it you do?”

Mommy said you were born on Christmas day
And you fly with reindeer too,
Bringing gift to girls and boys
Like the Wisemen brought to you.
Daddy said to ask you for things I want
And not be naughty, but nice,
And remember to thank you for all you brought
When I pray and close my eyes.
Sir, I’m not sure what it is you do,
But Mommy always talks to you.
Mom and Dad believe in you 
And they said that I should too.
So, Sir, put in your sleigh some trucks and trains
When from Bethlehem you come.
Dad knows you can do ANYTHING —
‘Cause you brought ME to him and mom.

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

A Sleighfull of Magic Memories

At Christmas my nostalgia rises like the aroma of Slice-n-Bake snickerdoodles wafting through the kitchen.  'Cuz I'm kinda like Peg Bundy instead of Martha Stewart.

When my son comes home from college this month, I’ll pop a luscious Mrs. Smith’s pumpkin pie and Sister Schubert’s rolls in the oven to recreate the home-made aroma of Christmases Past, just like he remembers.  Nothing less for MY son.   

We’ll buy our live tree and decorate it together with the kids’ old handmade ornaments.  And like always, I’ll reminisce about the magic that permeated our home when little hands wrote crayon letters to “Santa Cwaus at de Nawth Po.”  

Dreaming of racetracks and toy kitchens with real sizzling sounds, my kids used to climb up on the mall Santa’s velvety lap.  One year, as I watched them there within the finger-licking scent of Cinnabon, I realized MY dreams had all come true.  

I stood in grateful silence.  Amid the chaos of scrambling elves and flashing cameras, I breathed an epiphany that grabbed my soul with both hands. It opened my heart like a sacred book, etching within its pages close-up snapshots of Dimples and Bashful in a smocked dress.  And the timid essence of a chubby little finger reaching for Santa’s beard.

The Jolly Guy gave them a treat as they slid from his lap.  But I didn’t realize I would turn around and their hands would clutch car keys instead of candy canes.

It seems like yesterday that three freshly-bathed kids, waiting for Rudolph, snuggled up to Dad as he read The Night Before Christmas.  My two girls with pink, chipped toenails peeking out from Barbie nightgowns.  And my son in his Star Wars t-shirt leaning in close behind Dad’s ear.  They hung on every word, and Dad paused at the end of each sentence so they could finish the rhyme.  

I never imagined listening to Dad would be so hard for them when they became teenagers.

Christmas Day meant the patter of four little feet in footy pajamas tearing down the hall and a wide-eyed, squealing baby girl toddling after the fun.  She was just happy to be puttering behind her brother and sister, learning by heart the meaning of Family and Forevers and Fa-la-la’s.  I was too.

Toddlers in full-body fleece were long ago replaced by teenage girls in boxer shorts.  But I often stroll through photo albums and love on my sleighfull of memories wrapped in Silent Nights and Little Tikes.  

Leaping from fuzzy Polaroids, my snaggle-toothed Cindy Lou Whos bear hug me, and I forget the frustration of finding red icing smeared into the carpet and meltdowns in the toy department.  And sometimes it was the kids who melted down.

Once while Christmas shopping, I almost had a mental collapse changing a diaper under the raised tailgate of my SUV.  Unusually stressed, I fumbled with the sticky strips in drizzling rain while the other kids’ fists were flying in the backseat.  I felt a familiar twinge of bat crazy twisting from my stomach when a misguided Happy Meal toy smacked me squarely on the forehead and a Goodnight Moon book whizzed past my ear.  

Every inch of me wanted to scream, “I don’t deserve this!” but I tried to remember the awe of kneeling beside them after bedtime prayers and butterfly kisses.  That sense of wonder always washed away the spilled sippy cups of exasperation and every bit of drippy ice cream on new shoes. 

These days I am humbled when I steal into my teenagers’ rooms at night and kneel in the same holy spot I’ve knelt in for eighteen Christmases.  The sense of Extraordinary cleanses away the leaking Gatorade bottles of frustration and every ounce of dripping sarcasm on the phone.  It’s that magical moment of the day when I linger over their amazing, lumpy bodies under the covers.  My misty eyes trickle praises to the Creator and I marvel, “What did I ever do to deserve this?”

Saturday, December 8, 2012

It's Not My Fault! It's the Elf On the Shelf!

It’s Not My Fault!  It’s the Elf On the Shelf!

How do you know it’s the day after Halloween?  Every suburban strip mall blitzes red and green, and declares that evil is SO yesterday and all the cool people are now into elves and eggnog.  Spooky store windows seem to turn on hinges revealing their twinkling toyshop side like in Harry Potter.

For me, Christmas decorations inspire warm and fuzzy stress.  From the depths of my eggnog, I feel a compulsion to create the most outrageously holiday doorway and tablescape in the neighborhood.

When my children were younger, I jumped on the Pretentious Party Bus and labored over mantle mania, fir flamboyance, and bannister blow-out.

The themes flanking my entry consisted of everything from “Who-ville Yule” to “Holiday at Hogwarts:  Glad tidings from Griffindor!”    

And don’t even get me started about that creepy Elf on the Shelf.  My first Elf bolted because I ordered him to clean up his messy, late-night Patron exploits involving strewn Coco Puffs.


But later I succumbed to kid pressure and bought another Elf who unfortunately “enabled” my G.O.D. (Gone Overboard Disease)

I hosted an amazing NASCAR Christmas party.  As guests strolled through my threshold laden with 1,027 blue spruce branches, most of them didn’t even notice the colorful race cars and checkered flags arranged in the greenery.   Ken dolls dressed as Jeff Gordon with Santa hats and barely-dressed Malibu Barbies kissed for photo ops.  And elves changed tiny tires. And beer-chugging fans dressed in little Willie Nelson t-shirts.

My oblivious guests went straight for the drunk dog cocktail weenies and never noticed the angel tree topper dressed in a black and red #24 jumpsuit and my official Budweiser tablecloth.  

The next day, I found my suicidal Elf, who could no longer take the pressure, hanging by his tongue from an ice sculpture of the Daytona 500 trophy.

Age and exhaustion cured me of G.O.D.  My enabling Elf on the Shelf went to be with the Big Jolly Guy in the Sky after freezing to death from the ice sculpture debacle.  

My family says if I’m ever tempted to buy another Little Elf that rouses my addiction, they will stage an intervention and cut up my Hobby Lobby Visa card.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Breaking News: David Beckham replaces Siri in New iPhone for Middle-Aged Moms

I love Siri, the gal that lives in my smart phone. She’s like a human BFF because she’s learning to read my mind.

We’ve been together a few months, and she already understands me when I say “fixin’ to”  in my southern drawl and doesn’t even reassign text when I type “dad-gum,” as in, “the dad-gum autocorrect.”    

True “artificial intelligence” is on the horizon for her. When that glorious unveiling day comes, I’ll be the first geek pitching my Star Wars tent in front of the Apple store four days in advance, pacing my bathroom breaks during business hours, and explaining how Steve Jobs was just misunderstood to the TV reporter covering the ballyhoo.

I predict that when the hi-tech deities breathe human intellect into Siri’s soul, I’ll be able to change Siri into a male personal helper. I think I’ll name him Remi. He’ll be able to tell me where my car keys are in a British, David Beckham voice, without dragging up everything I’ve lost in the past six months. 

Remi will note my prior mistakes and notify me before I make more severe blunders, like buying Riesling instead of Chardonnay. And Apple will offer an “idiot-proof” package in which Remi will lovingly shut down his calling, texting and camera features when the user is tempted to “reach out” to anyone after multiple Patrón exploits.

When I lose the Post-it containing my Facebook password, Remi will tell me its location based on my personality, previous habits, and the fact that I’m a few fries short of a Happy Meal.  

In a buttery Beckham voice, Remi will say, “Since you’ve got a few chips missing from your nacho basket, darling, and you filed your last tax return in your glove compartment, then logic dictates that you’re using your password as a bookmark in your Fifty Shades of Grey hidden behind the dryer.”

My charming Brit will obey without an argument. He won’t always have to be right and won’t make up stuff when he doesn’t know the answer. My alluring assistant will compliment me every five minutes and never ask me if I really think I should be having another cruller. And I won’t feel obligated to commit to him when he never gives me jewelry.

According to the book of Wikipedia, Apple will soon unveil a new phone specifically for Middle-Aged Moms (MAMs) (Whopping-Humongous font sold separately). Engineers will enable Siri to comprehend schizoid thought patterns and send the user encouraging texts after it detects prolonged ranting with a dangerous rise in blood pressure.

Apple will be running “girls night out” TV ads based on the fact that the MAM demographic is motivated chiefly by chocolate and “Bacardium Limbus,” which is Latin for “alcoholic drink that may induce limbo.”

But the pièce de résistance of the new MAM phone will be Siri’s “BFF” butler service. It will call in a prescription for Prozac when your Wi-Fi is not syncing, and, like a true friend, it will even surprise you occasionally by spontaneously downloading books to your iPad—like your own secret copy of Fifty Shades of Grey.

Monday, November 19, 2012

What Mothers Say

What Mothers Say

Go on, walk to Daddy.
Please go to sleep, angel.
Go get me another diaper.
Go play on the slide.
Do you need to go potty? 
Go knock on the door and say “Trick or Treat!”

Go put away your toys.
Go watch Barney.
Please go play!  Mommy’s tired!
Go on in the classroom.
Go say hi to her.
Go sit on Santa’s lap.
Don’t go out too far.
Go do your homework.
Go ask dad.
Are you going on a field trip?  Sure, I’ll drive.
Go get your soccer bag.  No, I don’t know where it is.
Take it with you when you go. 
Why should I go to school to bring it to you?  I reminded you ten times.
Go get one out of Lost & Found.  I’m not buying another.
You need to go up a size. 
Go do your chores.

Do you want to go to the movies?  No, I don’t have to stay.
When are you going to team camp?  No, I know you don’t want me to drive.
No, you can’t go with Hannah on Spring Break.
Go take off your outfit.  You’re not wearing that.
And that skirt doesn’t go in the floor.
Will you go to the grocery for me?  Take my car.
You’re not going to the party!
All those clothes on the floor don’t go in the dirty clothes hamper.
Go get your money.  You can pay for it.
Buying Chanel requires that you go get a job.
Who are you going with to the prom?
Let’s go shopping for a dress.
You’re not going anywhere until you pick up these clothes.
Are you going out again?  I just gave you money yesterday.
Do you know where you want to go to college?  
Why don’t you stay in tonight?
Stay under the speed limit.
Your hands stay on the wheel, sister!
Stay strong.
Stay off the phone!
Why do you stay in your room all the time?
Will you stay near the dressing room and give me your advice? 
Stay with your sister.
Stay away from him.
Stay focused.
If your grades don’t stay up, the phone is mine!
Why do you have to stay for detention again?
Yes, you have to stay for the study session. 
You’re staying in tonight!
Stay true to yourself.
Are you staying at Sarah’s?
Stay in touch.  And you better answer your phone.
Don’t stay up all night.
Please stay awake.  It’s a long drive.  Do you need money?
Stay aware of your surroundings.
Is he going to stay for dinner?
Don’t stay if they’re drinking.
Stay calm.  I’m coming.
Stay on top of your college applications.
Stay positive.

Do you want to visit and stay in the dorm?
Stay close to God.
Are you staying in the sorority house?
Stay and watch The Notebook with me one last time. 
You’ll always stay my little girl.
Stay sweet, honey.
Is it time to go already?
Please. Stay.

Sunday, November 4, 2012

Most Popular Posts

        Here's the summary of my most popular posts from the last two weeks:

BTW - PLEASE "Follow my blog" and "Subscribe."  Let's be clear, I'm SO not above begging.  

        Looks like "José Cuervo Might Move In" came in first. You can read it here for a good laugh.
It's about my plight with the cell phone company and Charlene, God's gift to Customer Service.


            I hope everyone had a good HALLOWEEN.  It has been very different for me and hubs the last few years because the kids are getting older.  I have a great story about that here.  I think you'll find it very touching.   It's about how the kids grow up so fast.

        By the way, since all the blogging experts say that you should write as if you have an audience of THOUSANDS, I'll go outside the box with my wonderful audience of 30 and ask,


        Is there something that gets on your last nerve, chaps your cheeks, curdles yer cream, puts sand in your craw?  

        Does it burn yer biscuit that when the kids go out and you have 1 hour and 45 min. to watch an R-rated movie, (you haven't seen one in a few years) that you always only get 3/4 of the way through because they have the gall to come back?  

        And why do they have to come back to YOUR house?  Maybe because all the other moms want to drink wine and watch Magic Mike?  Methinks.

        Does someone in your household leave HAIR on the bar of soap?  Did I hit a nerve?

        Why do your kids always take other people's advice and NOT yours?

        The bag of Halloween candy you just ate?

        How 'bout some Mom- and Dad-shaming photos?  

        Teaching your teenager how to DRIVE?  Doing that now!  AARRGGHH. . .  I just have to drink wine breathe deeply.  Did it in my SUV today—taught her to drive that is.

        Have a great week and PLEASE come back.  I'm trying to post new stuff every day!  BTW - "Follow" and "Subscribe" now.  The first 10 new followers get a bottle of José Cuervo and a straw. . .    

Wooo!  I crack myself up.

Thursday, November 1, 2012

The Magic of Ordinary

Last weekend, like good parents, Hubs and I mercilessly forced our female slaves to perform excessive and unnecessary yard work.

However,  the slaves have been known to report said parents to Child Protective Services if forbidden to watch Teen Nick on Saturday mornings.  Fine.  Hubs and I really don't want to deal with that again.  

While they were engrossed in Spongebob, Hubs and I went out to tackle the ocean of fall leaves.  The girls were supposed to follow after  breakfast.

An hour passed and they hadn't moved so Hubs returned, gently yelling, “GET UP OFF YOUR FLIPPIN' CARCASSES!” in all caps.

“This show has seven more minutes, Dad!” 

Begrudgingly, he gave in, but the girls never appeared to help with chores.

Maybe this would take a little female ingenuity. I went inside and yelled, “Girls, what are ya’ll doing?” 

“Cleaning my room,” replied Youngest, checking Facebook.

“Hanging up my clothes,” said Eldest, tweeting derogatory parent hashtags.

Right.  And I’m wearing a thong.  

Before I could scream, “Gimme your phones!” Dad returned, yelling and clapping (fact:  dads always think clapping helps).  “Girls, come outside NOW!”

Eldest crawled into a semi-upright Neanderthal stance and groaned.  The condemned inmates plodded out the door, sticking their phones in their waistbands.

“Why are they bringing phones?” Hubs asked me.  

“Let them bring their phones outside.  Otherwise, they’ll be inside every five minutes checking them," I said, proving I am a female.  That way they could stay outside and at least LOOK busy, making their father happy.  A win-win.

After thirty minutes raking leaves into trash bags, Youngest went in for a drink.  Eldest waited there, rake in hand, reading her texts.

“Why are you busy not raking?” Dad sneered.

“She went inside.  You don’t expect me to do all this by myself, do you??”

“Here, I’ll help you,” he said.  Together they raked, bending down to bag the mountain of leaves.  

As they worked, Eldest wasn’t thinking about what was really happening at that moment.  She thought she was just helping dad with chores on a fall day.  They were just raking.  

She glanced over with a twinkle in her eye and tossed an armful of leaves in her dad’s face.  Before he could yell, she belly-laughed, and he pushed her over.  She went for his leg, and when he fell, she pounced.  Youngest bolted out of the house and jumped on his back. They stuffed leaves under his shirt and crushed them in his hair, and he cackled and held them upside down.  Their faces were red from the cold, and they relished the fun of 2-on-1.

Later they burst in the house, and I was captivated by the faces of my teenagers, glowing with remnants of childhood, which are now often covered by the masks of Bored and Detached.  

“Thanks for helping me, girls,” Dad said.

“Dad, why do you always bother us while we’re doing chores?  It takes twice as long to finish,” Eldest said, grinning up at him.

“Mom, we’re all muddy.  Here’s my phone,” Youngest said, pulling it out of her waistband.  “Take a picture of us.”

Small snapshots of Ordinary, like snatches of songs, that shade of blue, the wood handle of an old rake.  But years later the memories swirl together like leaves in blazing flutters of Long-ago and get stuck in a certain flannel shirt or in the salt and pepper of dad’s graying hair.

Memories made, just raking.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Halloween From the Eyes of a Parent

Happy Halloween everyone! 
       In between all the school parties, costumes, carving pumpkins, candy, and everything else you didn't get to, hope you can take a minute to read this—because it all goes so fast......

Halloween From the Eyes of a Parent

        When my children were in pre-school, Halloween was a much-anticipated, momentous occasion. It was a night in which the young were free to imagine, to giggle and scream, and to be who they truly were, deep in their five-year-old hearts. 
       Back then my kids put great thought into their elaborate Halloween costumes. My daughter was enraptured by Cinderella, and we bought the Disney maiden’s shiny blue dress weeks before the big night. Of course, a blond wig and tiny glass (plastic) slippers were essential.  
       Every piece of her costume had to be perfect; but unfortunately, because she had modeled the get-up for her daddy several times, my showgirl forgot where she put the show-stopping shoes. They had to be somewhere in the house. After tearing our living quarters apart for a solid hour, I glanced at the china cabinet.  
       Lo and behold, the silicone slip-ons sparkled in the illuminated display, occupying a place of distinction beside my glimmering wedding china. She forgot she had stashed them there, secure from her baby sister’s grasp. She concluded that the logical hiding place was, of course, among the china.

        Where else would you put “glass” slippers?
        As dusk approached on every All Hallows Eve, my husband and I spent grueling hours getting three kids ready, taking pictures, and simply striving for a photo in which no one was ogling at the camera with their nostrils against the lens. After I smoothed Cinderella’s hair and attached the last sash on my swashbuckler, my kids’ reality melted into a misty fantasy of fairy godmothers and fiery galleons on stormy seas.
        Whether the night was clear or whether a perfect storm brewed, a magical, mystical electricity penetrated their rationality. It stirred them into a suspended disbelief that vampires morphed into bats and goblins greeted those who dared to approach a house with no porch lights on. They relished the paranormal pageantry under the aura of dim streetlights but within safe range of strong arms.  
        Each stage of life melted into the next, and this year I must reluctantly adapt again.  For the first time, my son won’t be home this Halloween to steal peanut butter cups from his sisters’ pillowcases of loot. And there will be one less flickering jack-o’-lantern lining our entry hall of horrors as a glowing memorial to each family member.
        In May he walked across his high school stage and through the looking glass into another world. An adult world in which the roads are paved with promise and you have to pay for your own gas. On graduation day he donned his four-cornered tasseled hat and raised his treasured scroll. But my heart still pictures him donning his three-cornered pirate hat and raising his trusty scabbard. I turned around and a real five o’clock shadow replaced his black-marker mustache which was often eclipsed by a Gatorade one.
        Back then, each scrape and scar had a salty story, and a damsel in distress beckoned around every corner. At age five, he strode out the door to chase his dragons, and just a few months ago, he strode out the door to chase his dreams in college.  
        May his ship be guided by the compass of faith, and may his gleaming sword slay every giant that stands in his way.
        Through the years my little girl swirled into adolescence too. She traded her sparkly princess gown for a shimmery prom gown and now glides gracefully down the stairs in five-inch heels.
        But I still see my Cinderella clack-clacking down the stairs in Barbie high heels, not bothered a bit that her crown slips precariously over one eye as she bounds over the last three steps. I cherished all the memories because I knew that in a moment her chubby little hands would clutch car keys instead of a candy pail.
        Years before, she flew out the door to carve her jack-o’-lanterns. And pretty soon she’ll fly out the door, trying out her wings in a great big world, carving her own future.  
        May her every pumpkin turn into a gleaming coach, and may she find glass slippers in the most unexpected places.

Friday, October 26, 2012

Retirement Is Not My Style...Neither Are "Mom Jeans"

I love fall because I can return my “tankinis” (bikinis for tanks) to the back of my closet where they belong.  Cooler temperatures give me a burst of energy.  I ride my bike to get my chin waxed, I do lunges while I watch “Murder, She Wrote,” and occasionally I get bat-crazy and add a little Grey Goose to my prune juice.  

Today I casually looked through the mail—bills, the Victoria’s Secret catalogue that my son reads when I’m not looking, and brand new AARP card.  Buzz. Killer.  

The “R”, of course, stands for “retired.”  That’s like being put out to pasture.  Actually, rollicking alone in a pasture sounds fun, except for dodging the cow patties.  Instead, I dodge the wicked verbal barbs of teenagers, fail to help with math projects about how many meters-per-second Cheetos fall from our balcony, and explain to my pre-teen why those couples in the movie Bride Wars are sleeping in the same bed when they’re not married yet.  

If I were rollicking in a pasture, I wouldn’t have to worry about what I wore.  Clothes shopping is a challenge for someone my age.  I can either shop in the Juniors section where I have to wear a size 37 or go to the dead-woman-walking "Misses" department.

I really don’t want to wear high-waisted “mom jeans,” but if I bend over and accidentally “let down my tailgate,” if ‘ya know what I mean,  my kids’ therapy is going to suck my wine budget dry.

I should just accept that I’m at the end of my forties.  Some of my friends need to do the same.  

My friends give me those "bless her heart" looks when I wear my sweatpants and Welcome Back Kotter t-shirt every day, but hons, you’re gonna get thrown off the island in those over-the-knee leather boots.  Save ‘em for the Fifty Shades of Grey party.  Ditto on the 24/7, over-stretched, tennis outfits. Just sayin.’”
Another questionable style element of the “I-actually-saw-Neil-Armstrong-walk-on-the-moon” crowd is Uggs.  They are expensive moon boots which were born ugly in the 70‘s, and after a suede remake, are still Ugg-ly.  Paired with Nike gym shorts, they are the staple of every teenage girl’s wardrobe.  Moms should also be allowed to wear that get-up too, according to no one.

  Obviously, a monumental clerical error caused AARP to include me in their Cougar, I mean, Codger Co-op.  I admit I don’t Tweet very well and I only recently learned what hashtags are, but I am hip enough to have heard Psy, the one-hit-wonder Korean pop icon, sing “Gangnam Style.”  My style may scream “AARP,” but the only thing that may retire soon is my Welcome Back Kotter t-shirt.