My Nemesis

I like to tell people that I don't have enemies. But that's not exactly true. I do have an enemy, one who is so perfectly awful that I've launched a campaign to ruin her name among the members of my own small family circle.

She is known to most as The School Crossing Guard. But I'll just call her CG Biotch for short.

The enmity between us dates back nearly five years, when I began making the mind-numbingly dull trek between home and school to drop off or pick up my then-soon-to-be-stepdaughters.

Each and every day, hot or cold, rain or shine, CG Biotch was there standing guard like everyone's favorite grandma, with a friendly wave and a smile for everyone. Everyone. Except me. Feeling all soon-to-be-stepmotherly, I'd give her a huge fake grin and a hearty wave only to be met with a grimace, followed by a quick look away.

"Hmm. She just doesn't know me," I thought. As the weeks passed, my grins became even wider and more pronounced. My waves became more frantic.

In time, I came to resemble a flailing H.R. Pufnstuf (see accompanying picture-although my hair is long and I wouldn't be caught dead in his outfit) far more than the responsible-looking stepmom I was trying so hard to convince her to acknowledge.

And still she continued to give me the cold crossing guard shoulder. The car before me got a wave. The car after me got a wave. The passing dog walker got a wave. The jet flying overhead got a wave. Worst of all, if my stepdaughters were in the car, they got a wave. But on my own, I got the grimace and the averted glance.

So of course, being the generous and forgiving person that I am, I started to hate her.

"That crossing guard is evil," I announced to the girls a few weeks into the school year.

"I think she's nice," 14 (then 10) said.

"Yeah," 13 (then 8) chimed in. "She's been the crossing guard since I was in, like, first grade."

"Oh, she seems nice all right," I said. "But she's really evil. She's just trying to trick you because you're kids."

"You're just mad because she won't wave at you," 13-then-8 said, never one to mince words.

"I am not! I couldn't care less about that! But you can tell that she's probably a child molester." I was grasping at straws here, but these girls could be hard to convince sometimes. All I got, though, was a pained look from 14-then-10, a look that's always incredibly irksome when it comes from a kid.

My accusations have continued through the years.

"You know Elizabeth Harper down the street?" I asked 12-then-10 one day.

"Yeah."

"She told me that the reason the crossing guard was gone last week was because she's in jail for putting razor blades in apples last Halloween."

"Yeah, right." 12-then-10 said mildly. "I think she's nice."

For a while, I thought I at least had my husband on my side. But then I made the mistake of riding with him one day to pick up the girls. He got a wave.

"Don't do it, don't do it, don't-- AAAAACCCCKKK!" I shouted as he gave an overly-friendly wave in return. "Traitor!!!!"

"You're just mad because she won't wave at you," he retorted. "I think she's nice. She's been the girls' crossing guard since-"

"Oh blah, blah, blah," I harumphed. "She's got you all fooled! She doesn't care about you! She's just trying to get back at ME!"

"You need help," he replied.

Fortunately, this year I finally found a shortcut that allows me to make my way to and from school crossing guard-free. But occasionally I forget to make the turn and find myself face to face with CG Biotch once again. Like the elephant she resembles, she never forgets... to wave at everyone. But. Me.

"I see the crossing guard got a haircut," I said conversationally to 12 as we made our way home recently. "Now she looks more like a man than ever."

"She does not," 12 laughed.

"She does," I insisted. "And... well, no I shouldn't tell you that."

"What?" 12 asked skeptically.

"Well..." I hesitated dramatically, then said, "I guess you're old enough. The real reason I don't like her is that last year when I was coming to pick you up one day, I was early and she had just gotten here and forgotten to button up her jacket. And she had a t-shirt on and it said..."

"It said what?"

"It said, 'I love Satan.'"

"No it didn't."

"Yes it did," I insisted. "I'm just not sure I want someone who loves Satan to be helping you guys cross the street."

"You just don't like her because she won't wave at you."

"Uh-uh. I don't like her because she loves Satan."

"No she doesn't."

"Yes she does..."

Googles Gone Wild

Thanks to all of you who loyally checked back to find out if I survived the freelance project. Last time I looked, all of my limbs were still intact- and my glass eye only popped out once. (Just kidding about the glass eye). (Apologies to my glass eye-wearing readers).

I've missed reading about your lives and can't wait to check in and see what happened to you this past week.

And there are a few of you I'd like to check in... to a mental hospital.

A small percentage of my readership arrives via Google. And these unlikely readers have opened my eyes to the fact that there are some seriously fucked-up people out there.

I know some of you don't use the "F" word on your blogs. I used to think, "How sweet." Now I think, "How smart." Because my effing proclivities now mean that a search on Google that includes the word "fuck" and any two other words I've written on this site will send Pervy Pervster straight to Suburban Turmoil.

So welcome, Pervy. May I offer you some antibacterial wipes? Haven't I seen you on some other website? The state Sex Offender Registry, perhaps?

But that's the downside. The upside is the many laughs I've gotten at the expense of Googlers who came here looking for, say, "Playgirl," "Puberteens" or "jocks, stoners and nerds".

And there are a few Google all-stars I'd like to single out for special attention.

To the German Googler who found me under "Toes-like-fingers her-toes", Willkomen! Although you seem to have been drawn here like a turkey buzzard to roadkill, I'm happy to say that your search was not in vain. I've never admitted this to the blogging community, but in the spirit of global heart-warming, I'd like to publicly acknowledge that my toes are indeed quite long. And I routinely pick things up off the floor with them, particularly when I'm carrying Baby (another Longtoe, I'm proud to say). Too much information? Thank Herr Googler.

For the Googler who chose me from a bevy of available candidates under the search for "hottest soccer mom," wow, you made me feel all giddy. But wait. You only visited for like, a second. What's that about?

To the Googler from Maryland looking for "people in poopie diapers"... Ewww. Just. Eww.

And to the Googler seeking information on "spying on stepdaughters", well, I'm proud to say there's a real store of useful tips here. Hmm. That might be a good moneymaking venture. "I will spy on your stepdaughters for only twenty dollars an hour." Oh good. Now, I'll come up under that search, too!

Finally, to the Ohioan Googler searching for a "narcissist stepmother," what exactly is so wrong with a narcissist stepmother? Why do I get the impression you were having negative feelings about a woman who's obviously feeling pretty damn good about herself? Not that I'm narcissistic. Oh no. I have no idea how I came up in that search.

Now, these are the kinds of searches I'd like to see from my Googlers in the future:

"next big thing"
"It girl"
"world's best stepmother"
"sexiest wife"
"mother of the year"

I mean. It could happen. It could so totally happen.

The Teen Mom That Wasn't

As if there weren't already enough scandals and controversies in Lucindaland...

Like the scandalous habits of my husband, who insists on putting soccer cleats on the table and leaving his dirty underwear on the hallway floor outside the laundry closet, rather than just opening the door and throwing them on the pile of dirty clothes inside (And just who do you think has to pick that underwear up, Hubs?! The Knicker Fairy?!!!).

Then there's the ongoing controversy over whether 14 is old enough to date (she's not). After all, she's not going to do anything (it's not her I'm worried about), and she's definitely mature enough (This from the girl I was playing Bratz dolls with a month ago) and insert-a-thousand-other-reasons-here...

Another nightly controversy involves the status of 12's bedtime. Gone are the days of a dozen hugs and babytalk when the lights go down in her room. Now, our little angel sits rigidly in bed, all crossed arms and thin lips, ready for a fight.

"I am a straight A student. I shouldn't have to go to bed at 9:30. And 14 doesn't have a bedtime, so why do I? And I am very responsible and I don't stay up too late. And mom didn't care when I went to bed. And (insert-a-thousand-other-reasons-here)..."

Even Baby was the author of her own smelly scandal at the gym... Suffice it to say that as long as she's in diapers, I live in fear of another public poonami disgrace.

But now that 14 has entered the hallowed halls of high school, another scandal has erupted, one so unexpected and so insidious that it makes all other family scandals seem mild by comparison.

Apparently, I was a teen mother.

Take a moment to collect yourselves. It wasn't so long ago that I too was reeling from the shock of this information.

The dirty secret came out when Hubs and I went to 14's open house for parents last Monday night. Since we didn't really like our neighborhood high school, we had transferred her to another school across town- meaning that for the first time, Parents' Night meant a room full of complete strangers- strangers who didn't know us from the grocery store and weren't our neighbors down the street and didn't go to our church. As we navigated the hallways between 14's classrooms, I chalked up the sidelong stares from those around us to my husband's television job. That and the fact that I was wearing a really great pair of Kenneth David wedges. Little did I know the conversations that were taking place behind my back.

"You know Mrs. Markham, my English teacher?" 14 said the next day after school.

"Yeah, I talked to her last night," I replied.

"Well, she told me that after you and Dad left her classroom, one of the other parents came up to her and said, 'What is she, like 21?!"

"What?!" I said, stunned and slightly pleased.

"Then at soccer practice, this girl asked me how old you were. I told her you were thirty and she said she'd thought you were like, 23 or something!"

"23..." I said dazedly with a goofy smile on my face. Wow. So I don't look like I'm thirty after all... Maybe I could do one of those Oil of Olay ads... Yeah, I bet those pay a lot and...

"And they both think you're my MOM!"

I came crashing back down to earth. "Your mom?! Well, you told them I'm your stepmom, right!"

"No! It was too embarrassing!"

Omigod. Omigod. Omigod. I quickly did the calculations in my head. That would mean they thought I had 14 when I was... 7 YEARS OLD??!! Surely they added a few years... 12?! 13?! And obviously, I'm married to 14's father, who is very decidedly in his early 40s. The pervy scenario was too much to even contemplate.

"14!!!!!!!" I screeched.

"I know," she moaned.

The thing is, 14 and I do look a lot alike. Same hair, same face shape, same big eyes... We're sometimes mistaken for sisters- and there was that one time at a McDonald's drive through window, when the cashier said, "Damn, you is a young mommy!" But he was a white boy with cornrows, so what could he possibly know (apologies to all my white-boy-with-cornrows-readers out there.)?

But man-oh-man, I had worked so hard not to be a teen mom... All those boys I fended off (well truthfully, there's very little that's grosser than a teen boy pawing at you), all those back bedrooms I avoided at parties, all those frat boys I refused to follow upstairs for "some kick-ass hunch punch". All the teasing, the pleading, the manipulation, the second-dateless nights I endured in order not to become another statistic...

And now, at 30, it turns out that at least at first glance, I smack of teen momness.

Of course, there's a silver lining. I was so consumed with my career that I pretty much skipped my twenties, anyway... While my college friends were coming into work at 10am with hangovers and yesterday's outfit on, I was in at work by 3am wearing pantyhose, a cheesy "bright suit" and a helmet head 'do, making happy talk on the hicktown airwaves.

So I guess I've reversed decades. I looked like I was in my thirties when I was in my twenties.. Now, with my hair back to its normal long length and my new work wardrobe of blue jeans and a t-shirt, I look like I'm in my twenties. By the time I'm 40, I'll have the whole matter straightened out.

But it looks like I'm gonna have a lot of 'splainin' to do at the next PTA meeting. Maybe I should just have a t-shirt made that says "30-year-old STEPmothers ROCK!"

The (Local) Surreal Life

I've mentioned before that my husband is well-known in town. Since I used to be a TV person, I know exactly what he's going through. It's part of the reason we get along so well.

But now that I've returned to the ranks of anonymity, he's having to shoulder the local celebrity burden alone while I (with great relief- I'm kind of shy and have had to fake exuberance for many years) watch from the sidelines.

For the most part, his fame is a good thing. We get great service wherever we go, which really comes in handy when we need car or house repairs and can depend on reliable estimates. We get free tickets to just about everything that comes to town. And cops tend to let him off with a warning, while I almost always get the ticket.

But there's a downside. Everywhere we go, people want to talk. Really talk. And they think that since they know him, he must know them, too. So they assume he wants to know all about how their kids, their wife, and their second cousins are doing. This can be an issue when we're late for an appointment or we're leaving church and I'm holding our squirmy toddler or we're in the midst of a heated discussion about, say, whether or not I have a secret crush on Johnny Depp.

But mostly, his public popularity is just an opportunity for extra weirdness- something we generally enjoy.

When we moved to our neighborhood, the prior owners of our home let everyone know we were coming. So we've quickly grown used to random visitors appearing at the front door with "story ideas." But sometimes, the visitors get a little freaky.

One week, Hubs was weeding the mailbox planter when a heavyset man drove up in a pickup truck.

"You didn't hear this from me," he said by way of an introduction, "but the mayor is missing $10,000 from the city beautification account (details have been changed to protect the, um, guilty). But you didn't hear it from me!"

"Who are you?" my husband said.

"I live in your neighborhood. And that's all I want to say right now," the man blustered. "Just tell them a little bird told you."

My husband paused for a moment. "Well, can I at least tell them a big bird told me?" he asked, straight faced.

"Just don't use my name!" he shouted, driving away.

"I don't know your name," my husband called out after him.

Perhaps the most interesting phenomenon is that my husband's most devoted fan base seems to consist primarily of women. Everywhere we go, they turn up, oohing and aahing, taking his arm and asking to feel his muscles, simpering and giggling and flushing at every word he utters.

I'd be offended if it weren't for the fact that every one of these women qualifies for an AARP discount.

I suppose Hubs has that World War II-era manly-man look that really turns these women on. And they show their affection in the most surprising ways.

One night as we waited to be seated at the local Mexican restaurant, a grandmotherly woman behind us took my husband's arm and said coyly, "I know who you are."

I yawned as Hubs turned on his high beam grin. These are the moments that feed his ego so that I don't have to.

"Yes, I know who you are," she repeated, slapping him on the back. And then she slapped him on the back again. And again. And again. And again. It was like she was beating a back drum. She laughed and her husband laughed and Hubs laughed in confusion and I... well, I think I actually started snorting. The impromptu massage from our elderly Helga continued a good thirty seconds until our names were mercifully called.

"That was weird," Hubs whispered as we ran to our table.

Yes, weird is what our lives are all about.

Overall, it makes life far more entertaining. I can enjoy the benefits of the spotlight without having to actually step within it, we never have to worry about paparazzi and when we do get our pictures taken, we enjoy obsessing about where they'll show up and whether or not we'll look fat. Best of all, when we leave town, we're pretty much unknown and free to behave however we want.

And that means when an old lady makes a pass at my old man, I can tell her to take a hike.

Confucius Say, "Sister, You Got a Problem"

I am a wanna-be neat freak. As in, I wanna be neat, and I freak out when life messes things up.

I grew up in a house where a team of maids came through two days a week. I didn't know what dirty was. Seriously. Cleaning to me meant shoving everything on the floor under the bed. It took me years after I left home to learn the fine arts of toilet scrubbing, floor mopping, and proper laundry sorting and folding.

But I managed. And as a young single women, I mostly upheld the standards to which I was accustomed. It wasn't that hard to do in a one-bedroom apartment.

I owned the movie The Stepford Wives, and to be honest, I didn't think their lives seemed that bad, minus the part where they're killed and replaced by robotic sex fiends. I fantasized about what it would one day be like to quit my job and raise my angelic children, to bake cookies and wear pretty sundresses and attend PTA meetings and wave at friends at the supermarket. It would all be so idyllic, so calm, so clean. I never fantasized about the act of cleaning, of course, but I knew that with hours and hours at home every day, my house would be spotless.

Ha.

Ha.

HAAAAA!!!

Number one, I didn't take into account the difference between a three-room apartment and a nine-room house. Number two, I had no concept of the physical suburban turmoil that two girls, a baby, and a dirt-magnet (yet devestatingly handsome, astonishingly brilliant and irresistably sexy!!!) husband could wreak in an all-too-short amount of time.

As a new bride, I spent a good two years frantically cleaning my house and then grumbling as it was torn to bits within a day. I ironed sheets and pillowcases. I polished the silver. I dusted the baseboards and the ceiling fan blades. Hell. I dusted period. I drove everyone crazy, including myself.

But now, the honeymoon is over and after a good deal of time spent meditating atop a dustrag with a mop held across my lap, Confucius finally spoke. Here are his enlightenments...

1. If husband stomp mud in house 30 minutes after mop, did mop ever happen?
2. Dust make sneeze all day. Sneeze bad. Why you dust?
3. Who look on top of cabinet or tall-cold-making-object? If no one see dirty, is not dirty.
4. White kitchen floor is devil's invention.
5. Iron hot. Could hurt baby. No iron!
6. Why take down Christmas wreath? You just put up again later! Waste of energy!
7. Stay out of playroom. It make you raving lunatic. No one like raving lunatic.
8. Mean neighbor with pretty lawn move away. No more messy yard worry!
9. Scuff mark mean wall have Character.
10. You not Martha. Stop pretend.

Although my neat streak simply can't be entirely rubbed away, even by one of those Mr. Clean erasers, I do try to follow the wise words of Confucius whenever my conscience will let me. I figure I'll have plenty of time to keep a neat house when the girls are grown and my mothering duties are mostly over.

So I've struck a compromise between spotlessness and total sloth. When I look around, see crumbs and toys everywhere and start hyperventilating, out comes the vacuum. The countertops are clean and the laundry is neatly folded (but NO IRONING! If it's got to be ironed, it goes off to the cleaners). I mop the damnable white floor at least once a week and dream of a time when I can replace it with a dirt-hiding-and-therefore-beautiful hardwood floor.

And I just close the playroom door. Best to let some things be.

A Supermarket Saga

I've written about the behind-the-wheel bitches of suburbia. The truth is, that's not me. I'm pretty calm behind the wheel, but fret not, ladies, I am no saint. There is one place that turns me from a mild-mannered-mommy into a housewife-from-hell.... The Supermarket.

I hate going to the supermarket, yet I can't avoid its siren call. Diet Coke 12-packs are $2.99? Lemme' at 'em. Buy one get one free Great Lash Mascara? I am sooo there. Not to mention the fact that I have three kids, a husband and a dog who claim they need food, a lotta food, to survive.

Everything would be just fine if I could make like Paris Hilton and shut the place down for my sole shopping pleasure. But the last time I made that request, the customer service representative looked at me as if I had asked her where I could find the latest issue of Playgirl.

So I shop right alongside the huddled masses yearning to breathe free. I begin my food-finding venture with every intention of being nice, polite, even gracious. But it's not long before the supermarket shrew in me takes over.

Maybe it's that I can't go in through the exit door, even though it's way closer to the liquor section, the only part of the grocery store that appeals to me. Maybe it's that my cart always seems to have one bum wheel that makes a buggy-shaking WHHUUUUMMMP with every rotation, turning heads on each aisle and making me regret my decision not to change out of the spit-up-stained t-shirt I've had on since early that morning. Maybe it's that the baby aisle is a friggin' landmine, because a mom drops a glass baby food jar there (and often, that mom is me) about every five minutes.

But being a mother, I'm used to snags and inefficiencies. I can handle these things on their own. Combine them with other shoppers, though, and we've got a problem.

I treat these shoppers as a human obstacle course. Get your cart successfully through the maze as quickly as possible and win a tiny shred of sanity that you can cling to for the rest of the day. Or at least you'll get home in time to catch the end of the Dr. Phil episode about that woman who's addicted to plastic surgery.

By far, the biggest hurdles on the course are the new kiddie carts my grocery now offers to appeal to its VIP customers- the suburban mamas. The carts are designed to look like a race car and can hold up to three small children in their roomy front seats. Just try and maneuver your normal-sized cart around one of these monstrosities. It's virtually impossible, particularly since most mamas will give you a dirty look rather than moving their cart to the side when you try to squeeze by. As it's best not to rumble with another mama, I generally maintain a polite facade, then stick out my tongue and cross my eyes at the kids when mom turns back to the Fruity Pebbles. Difficulty: 9.5. Artistic Merit: 8.2.

Assuming you make it past the kiddie carts, you're bound to be stalled by a Clueless Male. He can usually be found standing in front of the steaks, staring blankly, much in the same way your husband stands in front of the refrigerator as though mindpower alone will cause that last beer to leap out from its hiding place behind the wilted head of lettuce. You see where I'm going with this.

If you're polite, you'll wait 5, 10, 30 seconds for Clueless Male to make up his mind that he's better off in the frozen dinner department and amble off. If you're a supermarket shrew, you'll rouse him with a loud "Ex-cyyyuse me!" Then you'll reach over him for your top round steak, heave a loud sigh and flounce back to your cart. Difficulty: 4.2. Artistic Merit: 7.0

And now let's just take a quick pit stop in order to give our Thieving Senior Citizen friend a dishonorable mention. I'm all about free food samples and I know that for some seniors, sample-heavy supermarkets = a nice lunch out. But Old-Man-with-the-Red-Sweater, why do I see you dipping into the free cookie jar every freakin' time I'm buying groceries? Can you not read the big sign overhead that says Kids Klub? Hello?! Were the pigs in blankets being offered on aisle seven just not enough for you? Were the lemon pound cake bites in the bakery a little stale? Huh? Keep your stinkin' hands out of the Kids Klub cookie jar, n'kay?

Onward. You know her. You love her. Her name's Erleen and she slices your deli meat. That is, after she asks you all about the baby, searches five minutes for the honey ham before realizing it's on top of the counter right in front of her, goes in the back for a new box of latex gloves, futzes with the gigantic and frightening deli-meat-cutting-device, and punches about 50 different combinations of buttons on the electronic scale before declaring it "broke". You can't be mean to her- but you sure can think up a few choice synonyms for "Erleen" when you get home and find she's cut the ham so thick that your kids refuse to eat it. Difficulty: 7.5. Artistic Merit: 5.2

The next road block is known far and wide as the milk maid. Bonus points if you can remember the name of the film that coined this term. I can't. Milk maids fastidiously search through each and every half gallon of milk until they find the one with the latest sell-by date. Meanwhile, the milk maid's cart is blocking the doors of every milk refrigerator from skim to acidopholus (WTF is that stuff, anyway? Not very catchy, is it? "Acidopholus, it does a body good." "Got Acidopholus?" "The Acidopholusy Way". It's getting late. Clearly.). At this point, my inner shrew is ready to ram that cart with my own. Instead, I do something equally horrifying. I touch the cart, even though it doesn't belong to me. I shove it out of the way, open purse and all. And I get the most deliciously appalled, open-mouthed, how-dare-you staredowns when I do that. Insert evil laugh here. Difficulty: 6.8. Artistic merit: 9.0

At last, the end is in sight. But there are three other carts ahead of you in the checkout line. And wouldn't you know it, you picked the line with the infamous bagger-who-never-should've-been-promoted-to-cashier-for-very-obvious-reasons-which-I-won't-even-get-into-here. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. This guy's line looks shorter than the others, but he is so painfully slow that each checkout takes twice as long. Plus, you've once again demonstrated your extraordinary ability to always get behind the person who's buying tax-free groceries for a Head Start daycamp, requiring the cashier to scratch his head in confusion for a good 30 seconds before calling in a manager who painstakingly records the entire transaction in a big black book while your Death by Chocolate ice cream slowly melts on the conveyor belt.

Finally, it's your turn. A total shrew would take revenge on the Clueless Male and Suburban Mama behind her by waiting until every item is scanned before slapping her forehead, telling the cashier, "I'll be right back!" and returning five minutes later with frozen artichoke hearts. But I just don't have the black heart to take it quite that far. So I settle for whipping out coupons, lots and lots of coupons, coupons that flutter everywhere and take precious seconds to be located and retrieved, coupons so tattered that they require the cashier to squint at the small print and shake his head. To my rear, I hear the angry foot stamp of a Milk Maid. Difficulty: 8.2. Artistic merit: 9.0.

Sometimes I get a trophy (in the form of a "$5.00 off your next order!" coupon that's occasionally spat out along with my receipt). More often, I get a raging headache and an unwanted workout transferring Capri Suns and bottled waters in and out of the trunk of my car.

It these supermarkets really wanted to win the loyalty of their customers, they'd make their prizes a little more fabulous. How about setting up a dunking machine containing the angry butcher? For every $100 you spend, you get a ball to hurl at him. Or they could offer a sixty-second free shopping spree through the cosmetics aisle. Even drawing a finish line at the exit and putting up a counter clock over the door would help. Confetti and balloons would drop each time new record holders left the building. I could really get into that...

Alas. Until American moms demand their rights as consumers, I'm afraid my utopian ideals will never be achieved. Remember, ladies. Change starts with you. It's time for us to band together and make our voices heard. Do I have any volunteers? Anyone? Uh... anyone? hello?

Road Rage

Here's a dirty little secret from the suburbs. The next time you get cut off in traffic, honked at when the light turns green, or tailgated in a school crossing zone, look closely at the offending driver... I'll bet you three cans of Enfamil you'll see a mom behind the wheel.

Don't be fooled by their nice-girl minivans and their prissy Land Rovers. Suburban mamas are generally the rudest drivers on the roads. The fact is, I can count on just about any man, working girl, or senior citizen to let me into traffic-- Surely they pity me when they see the sweetly clueless expression I've assumed for their benefit, the squabbling teen beside me, the toy-throwing toddler in the backseat. A suburban mama, on the other hand, will look me square in the eye, purse her lips in disgust, and keep right on going.

Case in point: Last night, I was maneuvering my Expedition through the crowded parking lot of the local Wild Oats, minding my own business, when I was treated to the mind-jarring effects of a Silent Scream. Apparently, I was taking up too much room in the aisle because as I drove past a mama in a Volvo station wagon, her face contorted with rage. "MOVE OVER!" she screamed as her children covered their ears and begged for mercy. Although I couldn't actually hear her, I swear my ears rang for a full five minutes.

My theory is that these carpool-enslaved road ragers are unloading the many frustrations of mommyhood on other drivers. They feel no sympathy for the turtle-esque elderly of the roadways, the lost tourists on the interstates, even the other chauffer-moms in their subdivisions-- because who felt sorry for them at three in the morning when they were scrubbing the effects of a three-year-old's dual-exit stomach virus from the bathroom tiles?

*Tired of being a victim, I decided to imitate their anger-release techniques, hoping it would relieve some of the pressures I've felt on the mommy job.

"Wear a fucking helmet!" I screamed out the window at a man riding his bicycle to work, prompting him to crash into a tree. Yeah, that felt good. Real good.

Once I was on the highway, a young hotrod got a little too close to my rear bumper, so I slowed down to a comfortable 50 mph. As he swerved into the right lane to pass me, I sped up. Soon, we were both pushing 85, side by side on I-24. Looking over at him and noting the curse words spewing from his mouth, I knew what I had to do and groped at the floorboards until I found a Barbie. Holding her aloft, I yanked her head off by the hair and looked over at him with murder in my eyes.

He quickly veered off the road into the emergency lane.

"Another one bites the dust!" I said gaily to Baby in the backseat. She chortled in response.

No longer a servant, I was the ruler of the roads, the princess of the parkways, the captain of the cul-de-sacs. I headed for home on top of the world and came to the final four-way stop before reaching my neighborhood.

At the exact moment that I stopped, another SUV stopped at the sign to my left. I chuckled to myself and gassed it.

The SUV gassed it, too.

Surprised, I braked for a moment and looked at the opposing driver. Oh no. Not here. Not now.

I was face to face with another. Mother.

Steely-eyed, she stared me down and proceeded to inch forward a foot. I gulped and drove forward, too, causing her to jolt to a stop. A look of confusion crossed her face. This broad wasn't used to being crossed. Scowling, she lifted her hand in a one-finger salute and tapped the gas again.

Returning her salute with one of my own, my SUV lurched forward another few feet. It was a 1 mph showdown and I wasn't backing off.

But then, something happened I wasn't expecting. The tinted back window of her Pathfinder slid down and two towheaded cherub faces peeped out. Awwww, shoot. I couldn't be rude in front of them.

As I watched them go by, one of the cherubs leaned out. "Screw you, BEEE-OTCH!" he yelled.

Damn mommies. You just can't beat 'em.

*For the more gullible of you, from this point onward, my post is sheer fantasy. No cyclists were harmed in the making of this blog and no children's lives or psyches were endangered. Indulge me.

A Very Bad Day

It was a very bad day. I'll try not to bore you with too many details, but it began way too early (5:45am), included two different early morning run-ins with two different foul-tempered adolescents, and only got worse when I learned that I needed to actually leave home and do a few interviews for a freelance job I've been working on. Interviews that could only take place without the baby.

I called every sitter I know, but of course, they were all busy. There was no other option besides drop-in daycare.

DROP. IN. DAY. CARE.

It was a possibility that had always loomed ominously in my otherwise sunny childcare horizon. As a freelance writer, I often take last-minute jobs that require at least a few hours away from home. But until today, I had always managed to find a sitter or schedule interviews when someone else was home to take care of the baby. This time, though, my number was up. There was no alternative.

"It'll be fine," my husband promised. "The girls both went there occasionally when they were younger and they loved it. And anyway, I'll be able to pick up the baby when I get off of work at 12:30, so she'll only be there two hours."

I showed up clutching my baby like a Vera Wang wedding gown on sale at Filene's Basement. A shifty-looking woman stood at the front desk. She gave me some forms to sign. I looked around and saw about 20 small children in the playroom. And no adults.

"Are you the only one here?" I squeaked.

"Oh no. Monica's here too. She's in the back getting lunches ready."

A million thoughts raced through my head. This room is huge. Something could happen to Baby and no one would even notice. Does that kid have scabs on his face?! Where the heck is Monica? What if some man comes in here with a gun and demands a baby? He'll totally take her because she's the cutest one! Where the heck is Monica?! They don't know that Baby likes to lie down when she drinks her sippy cup. She might get dehydrated! She might try to climb something and then fall off! Where the FUCK is Monica?!

"I'll take her," the woman behind the desk said. "Ma'am? Ma'am. Ma'am! I'll take her."

A second woman came through a door in the back of the room. Slightly mollified, I handed my baby over to a total stranger. And I left. And I got behind the wheel. And I burst into tears.

And I called Hubs.

"I hate it!" I sobbed. "It's awful! (sniff) Aw-haw- (big sniff) haw-haw-ful!"

"She'll be okay," he said. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

I tried to pull myself together as I headed to my interview. But I felt like the worst mother in the world. How could I leave my beautiful little girl in that shithole?

Of course Baby was fine. When Hubs arrived later, she had found a baby doll and was seated in front of the TV set watching cartoons. She had charmed the staff and no harm was done. But I swear on the good name of Liberace I will have to be truly desperate before I take her there again.

With Hubs and Baby safely home, I forged on to a long-awaited hair appointment. Highlights and a trim. Thank God, I thought to myself as I pulled into the salon parking lot. After this hella morning, I can kick it for two hours while I get my hair did. Was I ever in for a cruel surprise.

My hairdresser is very good at what she does, but she longs to be a famous singer and songwriter. Somehow, she's gotten it into her head that I know people and that I can help make her a star. And yeah, I do know some people I guess, but I'm living this housewife life in the suburbs with a baby. Not making phone calls to record label execs and working it. In fact, I've never worked it. I'm a horrible worker of it. But I digress.

Said hairdresser was waiting for me in her empty salon with a CD her husband just "happened" to drop off at the exact moment I arrived. A CD she'd paid to have produced and recorded containing 12 of her songs. A CD she thought I really needed to hear.

Let me just say this is only the second time I've been to this hairdresser. It's not like we have a relationship or anything. So I was uncomfortably stuck, squirming in my chair and white-knuckling the armrests as she played ALL 12 SONGS for my listening pleasure. With a forced smile on my face, reverently silent as the music played, I desperately tried to think of something to say at the end of each not-that-bad-but-not-that-good track. Here's a sampling of what I came up with:

"Wow. That was great. I can really picture LeAnn Rimes wanting to sing that." LeAnn Rimes? Are you nuts?! Where'd you come up with LeAnn Rimes?

"Gosh that was awesome. You could do a video like on top of a train or something." A train?! OMG, you IDIOT. So stupid. She is never gonna believe that.

"Amazing. You have a great voice. Really you do." Okay. That was just a wee bit over the top, wasn't it?

Don't think I was nobly trying to protect her feelings, either. Oh no. I was simply terrified I'd somehow offend her. And she'd take vengeance on my head.

But miraculously, she bought it. She bought every word.

"Really?!" she'd say, beaming. "Wow. That means a lot. Thank you. Thank you so much!"

Finally, I had to go under the dryer. Thank God. It looked like I would get a reprieve from the last three songs. But no. As soon as the dryer turned off, she ran over to the stereo and played back all that I'd missed.

And I paid 135 bones for that.

Like I said, it was a very bad day.

Poop Scoop

When I was preparing to become a mom, I never ever ever thought I'd be on such intimate terms with poop. I have cleaned it out from under my fingernails. I have washed it out of my shirts. I have found it in my hair. More than once. I have learned that while no two poopies are alike, they do tend to fall into a few specific categories. I offer them here as a public service to my readers.

Squirt Gun Poopie
Call it a new mom's initiation. It's 3 am. Your 2-week-old has woken up. Again. You're in the middle of changing her diaper when P-P-P-FFFFSSSSTTTTT... Bullseye. You've been targeted by Squirt Gun Poopie, along with your bed, the bassinet and the carpet. Life's a bitch.

Meat Lovers' Poopie
You were so proud when Baby took his first bites of hamburger. But four hours later, you're calling army surplus stores for gas mask estimates. Somethin's been cookin' in Baby's brick oven all right! A big ole Meat Lovers' Poopie.

Fountain Poopie
You drop your baby off in the gym nursery sans her diaper bag, since she pooped only 30 minutes before you left. Fifteen minutes into your stairmaster workout, you hear your name over the intercom. You run to find your baby calmly sitting on the nursery floor, a brown fountain of poopie spurting out the back of her diaper while three gym workers frantically clean the poop that's already escaped and covered her pants, shirt and the floor. You don't have an extra diaper or a change of clothes, of course. You hang your head in shame as you rush Baby out of the gym, wearing only a fleece blanket you found in the back of your car. Damn Fountain Poopie! Of course, this has never actually happened; it's only hypothetical...

Chug Chug, Puff Puff! Here Comes the Poopie Strain!
Your baby is happily playing when, without warning, he stops short, hunches over like an old man, turns bright red and fights back tears. The first time it happened, you shouted, "Are you okay?!" and prepared to rush him to the nearest hospital. Now you just say, "Baby go poopie?" and continue reading In Touch magazine.

Big Sacka Poopie
The only thing worse than a poopie diaper is a gigantic sack full of poopie diapers. Emptying the diaper pail is ten times worse than cleaning toilets. It stinks. Literally. And so does the baby's room from about six months onward. My Diaper Genie said he wished he didn't have to put up with so much shit. Now he's gone. Get it? Heh heh.

Ghost Poopie
What's that funky smell? It's the unmistakable, one-of-a-kind scent of your Baby's poopie. "Time for a diaper change!" you sing. But when you open Baby's diaper, nothing's there. You've been haunted by a Ghost Poopie.

The Poopie Tattoo
Usually you consider wet wipes to be the eighth wonder of the world. But some days, they just don't do the trick. You scrub and scrub and still can't get that poopie mark off baby's leg. Yep. It's a Poopie Tattoo. If you need the name of a good laser removal specialist, let me know.

The Super Duper Pooper
What's that? Looks like Baby's pooping. Time to change another dia... wait. She's not done. Okay. Now. Nope, there she goes again. I'll just wait three minutes and then... Oh, more poopie? Oh my, Baby! You're a Super Duper Pooper!

Poopie-Doh
It seemed like a perfectly ordinary poopie- until your baby got hold of it. Ta-dah!! It's Poopie-Doh! Mold it into a ball! Now throw it! Spread it on the walls! Mush some on your tummy! Hooray for Poopie-Doh! Uh-oh. Why is Mommy screaming?

The Perfect Poopie
This is the poopie every mom dreams of. Neat, scentless, easily contained within its diaper, requiring only one wet wipe to erase all traces. Ahhhh... The Perfect Poopie. You needed that.

Punk Rock Nerd

If I compare my 14-year-old stepdaughter's high school experience with my own 15 years ago, there really aren't that many differences.

There are still preps. And goths. And geeks. And jocks. And stoners. Have I covered all the major categories? Apparently not.

"14, why don't I hear about Jerry Robertson anymore?" I asked her the other day. "You used to have the biggest crush on him."

"Jerry Robertson? Ewwww!" she said. "He's turned into a punk rock nerd!"

"Punk rock nerd?!" I said. "What's that?"

"He wears all black and he listens to, like, The Cure and Metallica."

"Ohhhh," I said. "You mean he's a goth."

"No, he's not a goth," she corrected me. "He's a punk rock nerd."

"What's the difference?"

"Goths wear all black and like, black makeup and piercings and they're miserable and don't talk to anyone. Punk rock nerds wear some black and like, concert t-shirts. And they have friends."

Hmm. This was uncharted territory. It sounded to me like punk rock nerds were goths with parents who set some ground rules.

"Susie, you can wear the Highway to Hell t-shirt, but ix-nay on the nose ring. And wash that blue dye out of your hair immediately. I mean it, young lady!"

Presto! Susie has joined the ranks of the punk rock nerds.

I mean who are the parents of the goths, anyway? I see these kids everywhere, with their black hair and their black baggy jeans and their frowns and their chains. How did they get out of the house looking like that? I won't let the girls leave home wearing pink and red together, let alone a safety pin through their eyebrow and black lipstick.

But a punk rock nerd I could handle. A punk rock nerd has friends.

"But they're still nerds!" my 12-year-old qualified for me today when I asked her to define the term. "They have friends, but..." she shuddered and gave me a dark look that said not the kind of friends you'd want to sign your yearbook.

The issue is hitting close to home for 12 this year. I have it on good information that 12's long time friend Melissa is in fact headed for punk rock nerddom. The evidence is certainly incriminating. While most of the seventh grade girls showed up at school in outfits from Limited Too and Abercrombie Kids, Mallory bought her fall wardrobe at Hot Topic. Otherwise known as Punk Rock Nerdsville. Now, 12 is wondering how much they really have in common.

I'd like to tell 12 that the truth is, most of us used to be punk rock nerds on the inside- kids who felt a little different from everyone else but didn't really know how to express it. So we tried on labels. The vast majority of us dressed like everyone else in our group, whether we were preps or hippies or goths. But we never really felt like it was 100% us.

Maybe the punk rock nerds are the ones who have it all figured out. They toe the line between weird and normal; their look says, I'm different, but not that different. I'm different, but we can still be friends. Just don't ask me to sign your yearbook.

Head Case

When I took Baby to her first doctor's appointment at three months, it was a much Bigger deal than I had expected.

"Everything looks great," my doctor said, reviewing Baby's statistics at the end of the check-up. "Her height is 52nd percentile and that's perfect! Her weight is 48th percentile, and that couldn't be better! And head circumference is, uh, well it's 98th... Okay, any questions?"

I had no questions. I had no words. I was in shock. You're telling me my perfect little baby's head size is very nearly off the charts!?

My mind flashed back to second grade, when my class was given instructions to make Indian headresses for the Thanksgiving assembly. Each of us was handed a strip of construction paper to wrap around our head, staple, and decorate with paper feathers. Holding my strip up to my forehead, I quickly realized the construction paper wasn't long enough and raised my hand for another piece. As I started to tell my friends that we were going to need two strips, I noticed everyone else in the classroom had already stapled their strips together and put them on. I gulped. I gasped. I burned with an unfamiliar shame as the full realization hit me. I had a big head.

Back in the doctor's office, I stared dumbly at my little Bighead, sleeping peacefully in her carrier. She had no idea what she was in for. Would she, like me, have her own Thanksgiving Day of Reckoning? Would she one day try on her Daddy's hat and realize it fit her much better than any of the women's hats she had been attempting to cram on her head? Would she be lucky enough to go to school with a girl whose head was so immense that she earned the nickname "Fetus Head" (and Fetus Head, I hope you're not reading this now because unfortunately, nicknames are never forgotten), thus allowing her own X-large noggin to go unnoticed? And would she eventually discover that she was attracted to bigheaded men?

"Well, she takes after you!" I announced that evening when Hubs got home from work. "Her head circumference is 98 percent!"

"What are you talking about?" he asked. "Your head is ginormous."

"It's not half as big as that cranium you're luggin' about!" I countered.

"Oh, at least my head could never be compared to a watermelon!"

And the finger pointing has continued ever since.

Of course, I accentuate the positive... I'm pretty certain that little Bighead's brain is much larger than normal and that's why she's so very smart. But some days, it's been hard, like the time I got a phone call several months ago from a certain mother of mine who shall remain nameless.

"She's not walking yet?!" mom shrieked. "Well, she won't for a while either!"

"What makes you say that?" I said skeptically. "Her sisters both walked by eight months."

"But her sisters' heads are so much smaller," my mom said knowingly. "It's going to take her a while to figure out how to balance that big head on that little body. You had the same problem. You didn't walk until you were two."

"What?!" I gasped. "You never told me that!"

"It's true," she insisted. "I used to have to put you in the infant room at the church nursery. There were all these little babies and then you, just sitting and blinking in the middle of the room."

My disbelief was justified. Two months later, mom gave me my baby book and beside "Baby takes first steps", it read "14 months". "Baby walks well: 14 months."

And just like me, Baby was walking at 14 months, big head and all.

Now that that's out of the way, I'm coming to terms with Baby's balloon-sized bean. You know how they say great minds think alike? Well, hopefully Great Heads do, too.

A Soccer Mom Speaks Out

Being a soccer mom is so much harder than you'd think.

It's not easy remembering to bring 18 Little Debbies and Capri Suns to the Tuesday away game against the Bumblefuck Buzzards. It's no picnic realizing the dead animal stench radiating from your laundry closet (uncomfortably close to the kitchen table) is coming from a pair of unwashed shin guards lodged in between the washer and dryer. And it's definitely difficult driving a gaggle of screeching 14-year-olds to a scrimmage without (purposely? Who's to say?) swerving off the road and right through a McDonalds billboard.

But there's one challenge that trumps them all: joining other soccer moms and dads in the stands.

Not that the game itself isn't generally interesting (particularly if it's been raining and there's a large mud puddle in the center of the field). I'll never forget, for instance, the looks on my 14 and 12-year-olds' faces after they've won a game or the agonies they suffer after a defeat. And while we're on defeat, I'll definitely never forget the player we nicknamed "Scratch" who, in a fit of rage after a particularly difficult loss, methodically clawed each girl from the opposing team that shook her hand.

No, I'm talking about a kind of suffering that doesn't involve bleeding palms, but can be just as painful, a hair-pulling, teeth-gnashing suffering brought on by the parents themselves.

There are the BleacherBlondes- the "carefully preserved" moms who love to give you a complete rundown of their lives and the lives of their neighbors, not seeming to understand that your sole reason for sitting beside them is to see your daughter kick the freakin' ball down the field, not to hear about Madge Eaton's three-day labor.

There are the Ghostcoaches- the dads who stand on the sidelines and yell directions at their kid because obviously, the coach doesn't know what he's talking about.

There are the Screamers- Men (and these days, women) who get purple in the face telling the pimply, 15-year-old ref where he can get off after precious poopsie gets a yellow card.

And this year, there's the Bragger. His daughter is a wonderful soccer player with questionable social skills. Now we know from whence they come.

"There she goes!" he chortled to another parent at last week's season opener. "Goooooaaaaalllllll!"

"A hat trick!" he shouted several minutes later, standing up and turning around to make sure others were listening. "That was a hat trick for Jeanine right there!"

"You know," he said, leaning toward my husband, "I was the top scoring high school basketball player in Nashville 20 years ago." Hubs must've looked dubious. Bragger shifted his paunch and added, "The fastest in Bellevue anyway. Set a record. Yup."

"Oooh, I wish I had been there," I said when Hubs told me the story afterward. "I'd have had a few things to say myself!"

"Like what?"

"Well, I've set a few records, too. Records that make his pale by comparison"

"Records? You never told me about any records."

"Shoe scramble. Field Day. Third grade."

"The shoe scramble?"

"The teachers said they'd never seen anyone pick their shoes out of that pile as quickly as I did."

Hubs thought for a second. He seemed to like the idea. "And what about my cake walk victory at the elementary school fundrasier last year?" he asked.

"Oh yeah, that's a good one!" I laughed. "We're going to have to have our own conversation about this at the next game. A very loud conversation. The moment he gets going about how fast he is... er, used to be."

You see, speaking out is something soccer moms quickly learn by default. How can you remain silent when your own beloved daughter gets sucker punched by a brutish redheaded keeper the moment the referee looks away? How can you hold back the jubilation as that same daughter "accidentally" kicks the keeper in the teeth while simultaneously scoring the winning goal? How can you let a jackass Bragger go on and on about his superstar little girl without saying something?

Well you can't. And I won't. I guarantee.