Fright Night

Some of you wanted to know the specifics about how I broke my foot while ghost hunting. But I held off on the retelling of that experience, because it was such a good story it deserved a column of its own. You can read about the whole thing here, in this week's Nashville Scene.

And yes, I fully expect to have pissed off the ghost community with this one. I'm haunted by the thought of all the letters the editor will doubtless receive from the Bloody Marys, Nearly Headless Nicks, and Bell Witches of the world, all crying foul at my mockery of their chosen lifestyle.

I say I don't believe in ghosts, but I actually can't explain everything that's happened during the times I've stayed in the house where I broke my foot. The only other ghostly experience I've had in my life was when Hubs and I had dinner at a restaurant in an old Victorian house. I went to the restroom at one point and had that undefinable feeling you get when you know someone is in another stall- but when I came out of my own stall, the room was empty. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up and I had a delicious thought that the room must be haunted. I told Hubs about it when I returned to the table and we laughed about it. At the end of the meal, our server offered to show us around the house and tell us about its history before we left. I asked her if the house had any good ghost stories associated with it and she paused and said, "Well, none of the waitresses will go in the ladies room. We all wait until the restaurant's closed and use the men's room instead. And we draw straws over who has to clean it. It just gives us all a really creepy feeling." (Play scary organ music here).

I'd love to hear of any ghostly encounters you've had. The more the eerier.

P.S. All you sweepstakes fans can go here to find out how to enter a cool one. 3,500 bones to redecorate your home? That's what I'm talking about.

I Must Confess

I was fixing Baby's lunch last week when the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"What up, L? Dr. Phil here."

"Hey, Doc," I said, surprised. "Haven't heard from you in a while."

"Not since we kicked those Pageant Moms to the curb!" Dr. Phil laughed. "Thanks for that column by the way. That's actually what I'm calling about. I need to ask you for another favor."

"Sure."

"I need you to write something that bashes unschooling."

I thought for a minute. "Unschooling, eh? Who else is on board?"

"Well, I'm doing a show on it, for one thing. I've already signed up a New York Times reporter and a columnist from U.S. News and World Report. Of course, they only accepted after I told them Suburban Turmoil was in."

"Huh," I said, unimpressed. "And why is an unschooling throwdown so important all of the sudden?"

"Now that the Democrats are in charge, the conservative homeschooler voting base is severely weakened," Doc explained patiently. "Unschooling is their Achilles Heel. If we can undermine that, we can cripple the entire homeschooling movement."

"And?"

"And effectively end the war in Iraq."

"Awesome. Throw in an autographed picture of Oprah and I'm in," I said briskly. "I'll write it this week. After all, we've got to do whatever we can to bring our soldiers home."

"I knew I could count on you," Dr. Phil said, relieved. "But there's only one problem. Spunky Homeschool's been nosing around again. Asking questions. If she finds out about our unschooling conspiracy, we're through."

"I'm not going to say anything," I assured him.

"Be sure you don't," he said. "I put up a good front, but frankly, her pint-sized band of Civil War reenactors creeps me out. Ever since they cornered me and sang The Battle Hymn of the Republic, I've been a different man."

I shuddered. "That broad is all talk," I said bravely. "She'll never find out about our Unschooling Conspiracy. Never! NEV-AHHHHHR!"

"Bwah ha ha ha ha haaaaaaaah!" Phil and I both laughed and rubbed our hands in unison.

After all, we had hatched the perfect plan; a conspiracy so well-guarded that only a brilliant and perhaps slightly warped mind could crack it. And we would've gotten away with it, too, if it hadn't been for Spunky Homeschool and her meddling kids.

And by the way, would Spunky and I be the perfect candidates for Wife Swap, or what?

Bad Santa

Now that the holidays are here, many of you will be taking your kids to visit Santa. Just be very sure you don't end up foisting the tots off on one of these...

This-Ain't-the-Cure-for-a-Hangover Santa



As-Seen-On-America's-Most-Wanted Santa



Bad-Hair-Day Santa



Which-One-of-You-Brats-Farted Santa



Where-the-Heck-is-Santa Santa



PMS Santa



I-Really-Really-Hate-Your-Kids Santa



Bershon Santa



Give-Me-$10,000-in-Small-Bills-or-the-Kids-Get-It Santa

Happy Holidays!

Save Me From the Plastic People.

At 23, I'm invited to meet my high school friend, Cindy, for lunch. She's engaged and wants me to meet her fiance.

"This is Clyde," she says proudly, introducing us.

Clyde? Clyde?!

I swallow hard and smile. "Hi, Clyde, good to meet you." I've gotta give this guy the benefit of the doubt. And I do, even after he tells me he's an associate manager at a nearby chicken factory. Even after he brags repeatedly about the fact that he has his own secretary.

"...Well, I have to share her with one other guy, but she does whatever I tell her to do."

A half-hour of inane conversation later, Cindy tugs on the large locket hanging on her neck and asks if I've noticed what's inscribed on it. Clyde.

"Isn't it wonderful?" she says smugly. "Clyde gave it to me for my birthday."

I wonder why he left out the If lost, please return me to part.

Excusing myself, I practically run for the restroom, where I lock myself in a stall and giggle uncontrollably. Because all I can think of is the two of us in high school, watching this moment play out eight years down the road.

"That's my husband?!" the 15-year-old Cindy would've laughed derisively. "His name is Clyde?! And he works in a chicken factory! Fuck!"

But even as I'm laughing, I'm also deeply disappointed. Because it's painfully clear that Cindy and I won't have any more moments of hysterical laughter together, ever again. She has crossed over into the mysterious and horrifically dull-looking land of Adulthood, a place where lockets inscribed with Clyde are actually appealing. A place that at 23 I am nowhere near approaching.

A place where even now at 31, I still don't feel at home.

We all laughed at Cindy in our early 20s. We would never, ever, ever go down her road of elementary school teaching, seguing comfortably into full-time mommyhood. But as the years rolled by, more and more of us fell prey to Adulthood's siren call. My wild artist friend went to law school. My anti-establishment buddy became a doctor and made his dumpy, nagging girlfriend into his dumpy, nagging wife. Even I, by all appearances, have joined the ranks of Adults. Surely my three kids and house in the suburbs qualify me for membership.

But while their conversation has transitioned from rock bands and cool bars to country clubs and golf courses, I feel like I'm mentally stuck in a weird time warp. I can't relate. I mean, what would I want with a country club? They're full of backslappers and helmetheads. Screw the Symphony Ball. Let's use our impressive connections to get backstage passes for Radiohead. Or drink a bunch of beers and prank call the DeGolian twins.

The whole thing came to a head when I got an e-mail not long ago from a guy who without question was my wackiest friend in high school. He wore crazy vintage shirts, shared my Brady Bunch obsession, and introduced me to Atlanta's most bizarre hideaways, like the rickety antique shop owned by a weird little man who populated the place with dozens of 1960s mannequins and painstakingly changed their poses and outfits each day. Throughout our 20s, my friend would send me rambling and hilarious e-mails, helping me hold onto the belief that some of us, at least, would never change. Thank God.

This latest e-mail, though, was different. He teaches college now at a hip university and he wrote of his work on an impressive thesis topic and of returning soon to Paris. He used big words, called Baby my "little one" and worst of all, signed the whole thing with, "Warmly."

Warmly? I gasped. They'd finally gotten to him, too. "Soylent green is people!" I muttered to myself, realizing with a growing horror that I may officially be the last 31-year-old I know of to have escaped the Grown-Ups' dastardly clutches.

So what happens next? Will I wake up one morning with a mysteriously blank stare and a new appreciation for Bunco and khaki? Or am I doomed forever to be an imposter in the adult world? Honestly, I can't decide which is worse.

Signs She's Not Ready for Preschool

"Here we go round the Mulberry bush," I sang while getting Baby ready this morning. Happily distracted, she chimed in on the verses of "This is the way we wash our hands" and "This is the way we go to school."

The song was over. Or so I thought.

"This is the way we shot the bad guys, shot the bad guys, shot the bad guys!" she sang. "This is the way we shot the bad guys on a cold and frosty morning!"

I'm steeling myself now for the parent-teacher conferences that are sure to be in my future.

I'm Thankful for Freedom of Speech UPDATED!

If you don't feel like arguing the pros and cons of unschooling (and somehow, the homeschooling debate got thrown in there, too), check out my post on breastfeeding at the Nashville Scene's blog. There are some interesting comments from people who believe that breastfeeding moms are "fat, anyway" and need to stay at home, or at the very least, use a blanket when they're nursing.

Yeah, I know it's Thanksgiving and I should be listing all the things I'm thankful for. But I figured you could use a break from the cornucopia of turkey blather that's clogging the Internet today.

Or maybe I'm just a pregnant, broken-footed bitterman who's spending the day cooped up with a toddler and bad holiday television programming, and who has nought but a Chinese all-you-can-eat buffet to look forward to tonight when her husband gets home from work.

You decide.

*I'm updating EVERYTHING lately, aren't I? Okay, so tomorrow on Dr. Phil, the topic is... Unschooling! Be sure and watch it if you're interested in this topic. The homeschooling online community is already buzzing about the show, and not in a good way. Check out this post from one of the audience members. I had to skim, because it is lonnnng, but it's also a very interesting behind-the-scenes look at how the Dr. Phil show is run.

Unschooling Updated

Lately, I've seen unschooling pop up in the media more and more often. On the surface, unschooling seems like a ridiculous notion; basically, an unschooling parent allows her child to decide what, when and whether he or she wants to learn. If your child is into computers, for example, you might help him build his own from salvaged parts or sign him up for an html class, rather than following a formal lesson plan.

I would think this kind of educational method would work for some (albeit, very few) driven, motivated kids who aren't satisfied with the classroom learning experience or even with a homeschooling curriculum and who know beyond a doubt what they want to do for a living. However, from reading page after page of various unschooling message boards, generally, this isn't the case.

Too often, unschooling parents come off as just plain lazy parents. In many cases, they originally were homeschooling parents who felt overwhelmed by keeping up with a curriculum, chucked the whole thing, and now claim they are unschoolers.

The other warped part of unschooling is the role television and video games play in the process. Many of the unschooling parents who commented online spent an inordinate amount of time justifying why television is an important part of the "learning process," whether the kids are watching Rugrats or MTV's Laguna Beach. Here are a few quotes from the message boards:

My hubby just got a Nintendo Gamecube last friday, so that is pretty much all we have done all week.

You think TV should be censored and restricted. But what do your kids believe? This is a tough concept, but consider for a moment that their feelings about the subject might count more than yours do! It was a tough concept for most of us. We grew up with a belief system that says, "Parents know best." Unschooling necessitates rethinking that belief system. You, the parent, will never stop being an influence in your child's life, and you must certainly be available to offer your support, recommendations, and alternative viewpoint. But unschooling means we believe our children know best what is best for them.

My youngest is always quick to tell people that we homeschool and then when they ask what she does, she always tells them, "We don't do anything, we just play all the time."

Yesterday the boys woke up and watched the Wild Thornberrys, then they went up to my bedroom where we have our second TV and the nintendo. We found Star Wars Racer at the second hand shop the previous day and they love it.

The kids decided to hook up the PS2 in my daughter's room to play the game they rented, and listen to some CD's.

I think they spent most of the time in front of a dvd or two... when I came back they were in the midst of Power Puff Girls.

The truth is, nearly all kids want to watch TV. Lots of TV. Most of us try to limit the amount of TV they watch, because turn off the television and it's amazing what they find to do instead. But to be a true unschooler, you can't really deny them television at all, ever. As a former kid myself, I don't really think unlimited TV is a good idea- I remember one summer when I was eight, I was totally addicted to television. My mom got sick of it and restricted TV to two hours a day. I began spending most of my time playing outside with my friends or reading- and I remember thinking even then that I was so glad she had made me turn off the television. I had a great time that summer and developed a love for reading that has made all the difference to me in the world.

Still, how can I criticize unschooling without trying it out for myself? I recently decided to spend one day unschooling my stepdaughters- You can read the results here, in this week's Nashville Scene.

And by the way, for those of you who are from out of town- Pedro Garcia is our unapologetically opinionated school superintendent.

*I just found this rebuttal to my column on a home schooling blog. I'm glad that Nancy decided to "let it pass" when I started it off with a "not-so-nice word that seems to be prevalent in our society today" and read the whole column.

But here was the part of her post that really got to me:

I know that there are some unschooling parents out there that DO allow their kids to have free-reign, and I think for some of those, they are lacking judgment also. BUT I must adamantly say this: It is none of your bees-wax, as the saying goes.

Mkay. Unschoolers are even weirder than I thought.

The Cold War

"I've come to the realization that you spend at least two hours a day standing in front of the refrigerator."

My 16-year-old looked over at me, her face illuminated by the eerie glow of the Frigidaire light. I swear she's worn two tiny grooves into the kitchen floor from where her feet stay planted before the fridge when she's in "Hmm, what do I want to eat?" mode.

"Two hours?!" she blustered.

"That's 14 hours a week. 728 hours a year. 30 days! Do you realize you spend a whole month of your life every year standing in front of the refrigerator?"

"Well, there's too much to choose from," she said defensively.

It must be genetic, because her sister and father do it, too. The moment they open the refrigerator door, their eyes glaze over and their jaws slacken as they slouch into a cold food-induced reverie. Watching them, you'd think I had put one of those whirling hypnotic swirls from the cartoons inside the fridge, just to torment them.

I would never do that, of course, although I am thinking of reserving one shelf in there for family photographs or maybe a Periodic Table of the Elements, just to make their time more productive.

So I'm pretty sure that while other parents will one day nostalgically remember their offspring playing little league baseball, running for class president, or dancing in The Nutcracker, I'll sit quietly in an old rocking chair some day, reminiscing about the time my stepdaughter chose chocolate milk and a Gogurt after spending 30 days in front of a refrigerator.

My Right Foot

I broke my foot.

Oh, yes.

I broke my foot. Ghost hunting. How lame is that? Literally?

For my stepdaughter's 16th birthday party, we rented out a haunted bed and breakfast on Saturday night in Rugby, Tennessee. The inn is supposedly inhabited by a certain Charles Oldfield, who died in Room #2. He's supposed to be a friendly ghost, but people.

THAT DEAD SUMBITCH PUSHED ME!

How else do you explain the resulting lurch, the ankle turn, the unnatural balance of all my baby-filled-belly weight right on top of my fifth metatarsal bone (otherwise known as the pinkie toe foot bone), which promptly fractured in response?

Okay, so maybe I actually turn my ankle all the time, generally with better results. I prefer to say I was pushed by an unseen hand. It's sooo much more interesting, don't you think?

Anyway, I spent the rest of our stay hobbling around like a 95-year-old woman before driving myself (using my broken foot, of course) three hours back to civilization and eventually with Hubs's help, to an emergency room. After several hours in triage, a doctor informed me that I had a fracture and needed to make an appointment with an orthopaedist like, as soon as possible.

"Did he say whether the bone was displaced?" my doctor dad wanted to know when I told him yesterday on the phone.

"No, he just said it was fractured," I replied. "I mean, I think he would've told me if it were displaced."

But what if it was? What if it has to be reset? I'm turning green even thinking about that possibility. I'm in a lot of pain as it is- I can't take much more.

Strike that.

16 just slept through her alarm, so when her ride showed up a little while ago and began pounding on the door, I woke in a panic and jumped out of our high-up-off-the-ground, king-sized bed.

Right onto my broken foot.

Oh. The. Agony. It still hurts, one hour later.

So if you're considering breaking your foot, let me urge you to rethink it. It totally, totally sucks.

Because There's No Such Thing as Pageant Overkill *Updated at the Bottom of the Post!*

As many of you know, I have a special fondness in my heart for beauty pageants. But why should Miss America and Miss World get all the attention....

...when there's Miss Meat Pie in Natchitoches, Louisiana?

Or the lovely Worm Gruntin' Queen in Sopchoppy, Florida?

And who could forget Miss Hell Hole Swamp in Jamestown, South Carolina, particularly when one of my readers is a former Miss Hell Hole Swamp herself?

Thank God not all pageants require a pretty face... In Yellville, Arkansas, Miss Drumsticks competes with her face and body all covered up; only her legs are scored. Now that's Progress!

And if death by rattlesnake is your thing, there's a pageant for you, too! In Sweetwater, Texas, Miss Snake Charmer takes her life into her own hands.

While in Atlanta, Miss Klingon Empire proves that looks actually can kill.

Could it be that my pageant obsession stems from a shameful secret from my own past???

Okay, I cannot tell a lie. I was never Miss Feed and Grain 1979... Unless you count Halloween 1994. Loved your guesses on what the sash says, though!

The Cult of Clean

Well, I did it. I gave the FlyLady's hundred-thousand-e-mail-a-day organizational program a whirl. You can read how I did right here, in this week's issue of the Nashville Scene.

Thanks to everyone who sent me e-mails and comments about your FlyLady experiences. I was amazed that so many of you have been putting up with the purple puddles and sappy testimonials in order to get a clean house! What we really need now is a hip version of the FlyLady. She'd be a total hit and have her own TV show in no time.

Cringeworthy

A couple of weeks ago, a reporter from the Tennessean came out to my house and asked me a bunch of questions about being a blogger. You can read the resulting article here. This morning, I took one look at it and all I could think was:

Why is one of my eyes half-closed in that picture?!
The light made that shirt look totally sheer! Gah! I look like a barmaid!
I really need to get a haircut!
Did I say that?!

I did say all of those things, I'm sure. But they were in the context of a thirty-minute interview, so it was a little strange to read bits and pieces that were drawn out of that conversation and put down in print.

Also, much of that conversation was about my Suburban Turmoil column in the Nashville Scene, but the column received barely a mention in the article. I can't say I'm surprised, since the Tennessean is technically the Scene's competitor, however if you're a Nashvillian visiting this blog for the first time and you like it, then I hope you'll check out my column in the Scene each week. Just because I like, work really hard on it and um. Anyway.

What I really want to bitch about is the agony that comes with being photographed while pregnant. I'm not talking about the proud belly shots we let our husbands take; I'm talking about a normal photograph that has nothing to do with the pregnancy. There should be a law that any photograph that's taken while a woman is pregnant must have the caption, She's not fat. She's pregnant. if it is published. It's only fair, right?

Okay, I think it's time for a cup of coffee.

All I Want for Christmas...

...is a set of Bittersweet cards from Paper Stories.

Totally. Awesome.

Word Spreads, UPDATED

"Oh. No." I stared at my computer screen in horror.

"What is it?" Hubs asked from across the room.

"Someone at Mom and Dad's was looking at my website last night from 11:30 until almost two in the morning."

"Well, it couldn't have been your parents," Hubs surmised. "They would never be up that late."

"Who else would it be?" I asked.

"Your grandmother."

"My grandmother?" The color drained from my face as Hubs' words seeped into my brain. It's true that my grandmother loves going online. It's also true that she often stays up into the wee hours of the morning. The reality hit me like a sucker punch to the gut.

MY GRANDMOTHER IS READING MY BLOG.

Perhaps you don't realize the gravity of the situation.

MY GRANDMOTHER IS READING MY BLOG!

It's bad enough that my parents are just now fully grasping the news that I asked for a frontal lobotomy last Christmas (thanks to those readers who worriedly warned me that frontal lobotomies are rarely performed anymore and are really not a good idea), that almost (and that almost is driving you crazy, now, isn't it?) every member of the Green Hills MOMS Club would probably spit on me if she saw me at library story time, and that, well, I'm not even going to get into that.

The point is, my perfect daughter facade has been eroding for years now and I honestly believe that a part of them knew that this (and by this, I mean this. The part of me that comes through in this blog) was always lurking beneath.* And I think the closet cursing and crazy thoughts and deeds lurk beneath nearly all of us and the more we try to keep them hidden away (save for the times we're on a particularly wild Girls Night Out or a week-long getaway with our husband in Mexico), the more problems we create for ourselves.

But my Grandmother knowing all this? That's another story. I can just see her now, reading about the time I downed a bunch of alcomopolitans and then proceeded to boss around a bunch of Important Musicians, all while my belt was hanging open.

"Well, I declare," she'll say (and for the non-Southerners among you, that's a lady's way of saying, What the hell is wrong with you?)

Suddenly, it doesn't seem so funny anymore.

Part of me wants to write all the embarrassing parts in really small script so that it'll be hard to read and therefore, hopefully, unnoticed by family members. But that wouldn't really be fair to the rest of you, now would it?

Another part of me wants to send out a mass e-mail to every family member I have, saying, "You know that little website I run? For the love of God, DON'T READ IT!" But I know me and the truth is, if there were an open diary lying on the table in front of me and no one around? I would totally read every word. And I must've gotten that quality from somewhere, right?

So let's try this, family. You may read, but you may not talk to me about it. Ever.

Okay, maybe that's a little harsh.

You may talk to me about it three times a year. So choose your occasions wisely.

That doesn't sound right, either.

Okay. You may read, but you may not criticize.

Aw shit. I mean, shoot.

I'm screwed, aren't I? I'm screwed.

*(Although I'll never forget when my mom read the word 'crap' in my very first Nashville Scene column and urged me to talk to my editor about it, because, as she put it, "That's not who you are." And she was right. Because I would almost always choose "shit" over "crap," at least in the written form).

P.S. Check out what my grandmother had to say in the comments. She's awesome, isn't she?

Teenism Rears Its Ugly Head

"Are y'all fixing to eat dinner or are you going to eat, like one appetizer and split it?" the waiter asked. "Because we need to save our tables for real customers."

My 16-year-old and two friends had walked to the American Cafe at Green Hills Mall after last night's football game. 16 looked around at the nearly-empty restaurant.

"We're going to eat meals," she said uncertainly. "I mean, we're hungry."

The waiter sighed and led them to a table. He tossed down a few menus and asked for their drink orders. All three girls wanted water. Rolling his eyes, he wrote the order down and left, returning a minute later. "Do you know what you want to eat?"

"No," they answered. "We're still deciding." With a loud sigh, he walked away, then came back.

"Do you know what you want now? Because I've got somewhere I need to be."

The girls ordered an appetizer and two entrees. A few minutes later, 16 flagged the waiter down.

"Don't you guys serve bread?" she asked.

"We do if you ask for it."

"We'd like some, please."

The bread never came. When their appetizer arrived, she asked again.

"Can we have some bread now, please?"

Her request was returned with more sighing and eye rolling. After several more minutes, the waiter plunked the bread down on the table, said "We're out of butter," and stalked off.

Shortly after bringing out their entrees, he returned with the check book and flung it onto the table.

Teenism. Gah.

I remember being a teenager and getting this kind of treatment from time to time, though more often it was at upscale boutiques than at restaurants. I'd have a hundred bucks in birthday money to burn, only no one but no one who worked there would so much as look in my direction. After spending 15 minutes or so feeling like Kevin Federline at a Spears family reunion, I'd walk out of the store, redfaced and emptyhanded. Telling my mom about it generally resulted in her marching me back into the store and saying, "I'm here because none of you would help my daughter!" Not surprisingly, I generally kept the teenist treatment to myself.

Anyway, I'm not sure why last night's waiter was so put off by his clientele; if you're going to work at a restaurant that's right beside a large movie theater and across the street from a high school, you've got to expect that teenagers will be eating there. I'm sure he's seen his share of jerks, but 16 and her two friends obviously weren't there to unscrew salt shakers and order free bread and water.

I guess I'm writing all this to say, American Cafe waiter dude, on behalf of nice teenagers everywhere and the parents who love them: Fuck you.

Wee the Pee-ple

While much of the nation mulled over their voting options as they waited to vote on Tuesday, I stood in line with only one thing on my mind.

Ohhh, I've gotta pee. Oh man. I wonder if this woman will hold my place in line while I go pee? Hmm. I doubt it. She keeps giving me dirty looks. Oh shit. I've got to pee so bad. This line looks at least two hours long. I wonder if I leave the stroller here and go pee, would that save my place? Surely they wouldn't kick Baby out of line...

Lest you've forgotten, being five months pregnant isn't easy on the bladder. Particularly when two little fetus feet are using it as a trampoline.

Unlike Baby, this Boy's favorite position is feet-on-the-bladder and it is excruciating. I spend my days feeling quick bursts of I'VE GOTTA PEE! Wait, no, I'm okay. I'VE GOTTA PEE! Hm. I'm okay again. I'VE GOTTA PEE!

I imagine he's getting quite a kick out of it, if you know what I mean. More than once, I've gone to the bathroom only to turn around and go again five minutes later. I told my mom about the phenomenon yesterday.

"You need to tell your doctor about that," she said gravely.

"Mom," I said, "I can feel him kicking my bladder and that's when I need to go. It's common. Some of my friends have had the same thing happen."

"If you're going to the bathroom twice in five minutes, there's a problem," she said darkly.

Yes, there's a problem and he's using my bladder as a punching bag! What could a doctor possibly do about that?

Back to voting. After 30 minutes of me shifting from one foot to the other, the line finally moved inside the building, where it was twice as long as it had been outside. I gasped at the sight, just as a poll volunteer approached me.

"Come sit over here," she said and guided me to a chair at the front of the line. "We have one machine set aside for pregnant women and mothers with young children."

Heh heh heh. I gloated back at all the sour glares that followed me to my special chair. VIP treatment, baby! Suddenly a swift kick to the bladder put me in check.

I sat down beside another woman with a barely discernible bump.

"How many weeks are you?" I asked her.

"Ten," she replied proudly.

I snickered. "Urine for a real treat!"

Halloween Ain't What It Used to Be

Did you have a problem with turbo-treating this Halloween? Do you even know what I'm talking about? Read all about it here, as well as why the holiday serves as a cruel reminder that it's best to keep to oneself in the suburbs, in this week's Nashville Scene edition of Suburban Turmoil.

The News We've Been Waiting For

My husband likes to tell people he lives in a women’s dormitory.

He acts like he’s joking, but with 31, 16, 13 and 2-year-old females in the house, he’s definitely the odd man out. The hallways reek of perfume. The tables and countertops are littered with Disney Princess dolls, stray earrings and lip gloss containers. Our must-see TV consists of America’s Next Top Model and Gilmore Girls. It can’t be easy to be a man in the Ferrier house. So when I learned I was pregnant four months ago, his guilty confession to me wasn’t exactly a surprise.

“Don’t tell the girls this,” he whispered, “but I really want a boy this time.”

Well, duh.

On the outside, I acted supportive, but secretly, I had mixed feelings about having a boy. On the one hand, boys typically adore their mothers. We’d eventually get free lawn maintenance out of the deal. And we’d only have to pay for three weddings instead of four.

On the other hand, what was I supposed to do with a boy? I couldn’t French braid his hair or take him to get a manicure. Instead, he’d probably want me to play outside with him, and while I’ve been known to read 20 books in a row to my 2-year-old and play Bratz dolls with my stepdaughters for entire days at a time, I don’t do dirt.

Screw this boy business. The Ferrier family needed another girl. Besides, we already have all the toys, clothes, ribbons, boas and tiaras that she could possibly want. Hubs would just have to deal with being the token dude of the ranch.

Unfortunately, the boy v. girl controversy wasn’t confined to the privacy of our bedroom walls. No, everyone and their mothers seemed to have an opinion on what was in my belly.

“Kiko says it’s definitely a girl,” my brother-in-law informed us on the phone after his wife consulted a few books from her homeland. “Japanese numerology. She’s never been wrong.”

“Let me feel your tummy,” an older woman said at the post office, groping my stomach while I stood rigid and appalled. “It’s a boy all right.”

“You’re carrying that baby in the front,” a friend informed me. “It’s a girl.”

“You’re carrying that baby in the front,” another friend said a few days later. “It’s a boy.”

My orange juice cravings meant I was having a girl. My indigestion indicated a boy. When my obstetrician registered the baby’s heart rate at 165, we were sure we were having a girl. The next month, it was down to 137 and we knew we were having a boy. I felt like Hubs and I were playing an endless game of Baby Pong. And deep inside, I began to wonder if I was actually having a little Jamie Lee Curtis, a child whose gender would be debated for decades to come. By the time Hubs and the girls accompanied me to the official ultrasound appointment I was a nervous wreck.

“Do you want to know the sex?” The technician asked us as we crammed into the closet-sized room that held the ultrasound equipment.

“Yes!” We all shouted in unison.

Silently, she poked and prodded at my belly with her ultrasound wand. On the screen, the baby yawned and squirmed while we watched in fascination. After a few minutes of taking measurements, she zoomed in on the baby’s pelvis.

“Do you see that right there?” She asked, pointing at the screen. “What do you think that is?”

“Is it a…” Oh lord. I was supposed to say ‘penis,’ I just knew it. But I was raised in the South and somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to say that word out loud.

“Is it a, a boy?”

“Yes!”

Beside me, Hubs nearly knocked over his chair. After three girls, this must’ve been the most surprising moment he’d ever had, better even than the time he watched a drunk teenager put his head through a Picasso at a California party back in the 70s.

“Good work! You did it!” he whispered in my ear as he struggled to compose himself.

“Erm. I think we did it,” I responded. I couldn’t say much else. I was too busy thinking about my future. Bringing up a boy. He’d probably want an ant farm. And he’d almost certainly want to sign up for t-ball. Ugh.

But he’d also look damn cute in overalls and a little red cap. I smiled a little. Possibly, I could make this work. Particularly if he ended up gay.

“That is so awesome!” An obstetrician friend of mine squealed when I told her later over the phone. “Have you come up with a name yet?”

“I think I’m going to let Hubs name him,” I said. “Because all the names he likes are pretty simple and inoffensive. Like Jim and Sam.”

“Oh good,” she said. “Because I’m telling you, all the boys with frou-frou names end up in neonatal intensive care.”

“Are you serious?”

“Totally serious.”

And so, readers, don’t expect a birth announcement from us with Cayden, Keegan or Camden on it. We want a healthy baby.

Right now, we’re thinking Brick. Brick Rock. Brick Rock Ferrier.

The Monsters in Our Closets

Last night, we rented Monster House, a big budget, computer-animated movie about a house that attacks and eats people. The movie was cute (heightened by Baby dancing around at the end, chanting "Yay, mean old man, Yay mean old man!") but when I went upstairs to go to bed, it hit me like a Steve Madden clog to the face that Monster House was a merely thinly-veiled analogy about living with teenagers.

Because just as I reached the top of the staircase, the slightly-open door to my 13-year-old stepdaughter's room slammed shut, just like it always does any time an adult is within 25 feet of the premises. Some parents would get upset about this apparent lack of hospitality, but I prefer to believe instead that when the girls' doors slam, it only means they are trying to protect their father and me from the flying purple people eater that resides within.

Of course, I don't want to leave them alone in a room with that kind of evil. Frequently, I knock at the door, only to hear a muffled, "Just a minute!" and an ensuing battle of bumps and shufflings and reassuring cries of "I'm dressing!" before the door is at last opened five minutes later. If I'm still waiting (and generally, I'm not), I try to appear sympathetic to their obvious dilemma, because I realize that banishing a monster to the confines of an already overstuffed closet couldn't have been easy. And I try to be grateful that at least our monsters don't smell- I've heard some parents' admit that their teens are constantly opening their windows, no doubt trying to rid their rooms of some monstrous odor.

Generally, I try not to enter our Monster Rooms, but sometimes it's unavoidable. When my parents came to visit a few weeks ago, I was forced to wrangle our monsters into submission for an entire weekend. They had made absolute wrecks of both the girls' rooms, leaving candy wrappers everywhere (apparently, monsters prefer Reese's Peanut Butter Cups), vomiting tangled profusions of clothing across floors, beds and chairs (Monster brand of choice: Forever 21), and scattering a trail of enticing, folded-up notes for me to follow like breadcrumbs (Of course I didn't read them! How else would I not know that Amanda and Chad broke up because Amanda made out with Steven after school last Friday?!). As I cleaned, I was filled with admiration that the girls put up with such horribly messy monsters and yet had never once complained.

My younger stepdaughter is so solicitous of our well-being, in fact, that when Hubs tried to help her find a missing gift card last night by digging through the stickers, hairbands and stationery jammed within her dressing table drawers, she hovered over him, clearly worried that he might find some evidence of monster activity. I think it's wonderful that she tries to protect us this way, but Hubs needed some convincing afterward of her obvious good intentions.

So parents, I urge you to treat your teenagers with sympathy and understanding if their bedroom is suddenly harder to get inside than your safety deposit box. They're only trying to protect you from the foul-breathed, fur-matted creature that has taken up residence within. No wonder they're struggling in Advanced Pre-Calculus; now that I know what I know, my 16-year-old is totally off the hook.

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FlyLady

I decided to try FlyLady and might just write a column about it. Some of her suggestions are good, but some seem a little wacky. For example when I told my husband that he needed to wipe down the sink after every use because keeping my sink clean was my way of saying, "I love me," he laughed like a loon. On the other hand, I know that lots of you out there swear by her organizational techniques.

So here's the deal... If you've tried FlyLady, would you mind e-mailing me and letting me know if it worked for you? How long did you stick with it? What were the funniest parts of following the program? Send your e-mails to Lucindathemom@yahoo.com.

Thanks!

P.S. Want some free coffee? Go here and find out how to get some ground up heaven sent to your very own home.

The Day My Stepdaughter Joined the Mommy Wars

"So we played this game today in group time," my 16-year-old said, "where the teacher read out statements and we had to name the person in the group who best fit the statement. And guess which two statements everyone said fit me?"

"I don't know, what?"

"I will be a stay-at-home mom' and 'I am very nurturing!" She grimaced.

"Um. Wow!" I said.

"And afterward, the teacher asked if we disagreed with the statements about ourselves and I raised my hand. Because I could never be a stay-at-home mom! I mean, I can't cook and I hate to clean and I need to have a career!"

"Did you tell the teacher that?"

"Yes!"

"And what did she say?"

"She just looked at me and then she said, 'Interesting."

Funny. That was exactly what I was going to say.

Bratty Boot Camp

"Come give Daddy a hug," Hubs wheedled the other day as Baby sat in my lap.

"No! I Mommy's baby! I do not! Like! DADDY!"

I couldn't help but giggle as Baby turned her face into the crook of my arm. I felt bad for Hubs, but what could I say? Of course Baby loved me. I'm like, an awesome mom!

Two hours later while I was changing her diaper, she smacked me in the face, called me a little punk and all bets were off.

It was time for Bratty Boot Camp.

"I've had it, Baby, " I said, pacing back and forth across her room while she stood defiantly among her toys. "You are getting spoiled and rude. And it's going to stop. It's Bratty Boot Camp time."

She had no idea what I was talking about, but it made me feel better and I hoped she could at least see by my face that I meant business.

"Hubs, from now on, she's going in the Naughty Corner every single time she misbehaves," I said. "I don't care if it's ten times in one day. We've got to eliminate the brattiness. And I need you to be on board."

"I'm totally on board," he said solemnly. "She's not nice to me and it's got to stop."

The next day, Baby threw a bunch of cereal on the kitchen floor and howled at me. I knew what I had to do.

As she stood in the Naughty Corner for the required two minutes, she sobbed with indignation.

"But I didn't do it!" She cried. "It was Quackwees!"

"No, it was you," I said grimly.

"But I love you!" She tried again after a few seconds. Ouch. How had she learned manipulation so early? Still, I stood my ground.

When her two minutes were up, I sat down beside her and said quietly, "Are you through being naughty?"

"Yes," she sniffed. We ended in a hug and she was good for the rest of the afternoon.

Awwwww, yeah! I thought to myself. The Naughty Corner ROCKS!

Unfortunately, I had won the battle, but not the war. Baby continues to have outbursts from time to time, far more than she's ever had before. The naughty corner is still in effect about once a day. But at least I have Hubs on my side.

Or so I thought.

After a long afternoon spent with him yesterday, Baby apparently decided daddies were the new mommies. When he brought her down from the playroom to see me, she screamed and cried, "No no! I no like Mommy! I want Dada!"

I looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to go all Naughty Corner on her. "Bratty Boot Camp!" I whispered through gritted teeth.

Instead, an indulgent smile spread across his face.

"We're buddies again!" He crowed.

Jerk.

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October Perfect Post Awards!

It's Perfect Post Awards day, a time for bloggers to show other bloggers just how much they enjoyed one of their posts from the preceding month. MommaK and I came up with the Perfect Post concept and have been amazed both at the number of people who've participated and at the amazing talent that's out there in blogland.

My choice for the Perfect Post Award this month was a last-minute decision, after a blogger sent me a link to a post he wrote yesterday on why it's a great idea for moms and dads to blog about their kids. It was brilliantly written and made me feel really good about being a mommyblogger.

Despite what a couple of killjoys would have us think, this post reminds us that we're actually creating a way for our kids (and grandkids and great grandkids) to know who we really were and are, at a time when they're grown-ups themselves and can really appreciate it. And that is awesome. Congratulations, Shoot the Moose, on a Perfect Post.

Now check out some of the other Perfect Post Awards. I promise you won't be disappointed! And if you'd like to participate next month, send me an e-mail and I'll add you to the mailing list.

Petroville awarded Loose Leaf Notes
The Lovely Mrs. Davis awarded Mommy Tracks
Mary Tsao awarded CityMama
Mama Drama and Organized Chaos awarded One Plus Two
Mom on a Wire awarded La Vie en Rose
Masked Mom awarded Womanly Parts
Sarcomical awarded Chronicles of Me
Crazy Momcat awarded Jenn from Mommybloggers
Roughly Speaking awarded Full Soul Ahead
The Silent I awarded CityMama
Mother May I awarded The Wallpaper of My Mind
The Looney Bin awarded Miss Doxie
Our Own Private Idaho awarded A Little Pregnant
Two Okapis awarded Daddy Daze
Digital Father awarded TheThink
Scribbit awarded Mom on a Wire
Mysterious Lady awarded Wystful
QueenieCarly awarded Suburban Princess
Pass the Torch awarded Drama Queen's Momma
Chatty awarded Green Apple Martini
Ladybug Crossing awarded I Wasn't Always Like This
Black Belt Momma awarded Maniacal Days
Blog, Blah, Blah awarded Adventures of a Domestic Engineer
The Believing Soul awarded Writing Anam Cara
Never That Easy awarded Balls and Walnuts
Miss Cellania awarded Monica's Thoughts
Nupboard Central awarded Life of Pie
Write About Here awarded Bub and Pie
The Fat Lady Sings awarded Diva Jood guest-posting at The Fat Lady Sings
Something Blue awarded City Mama
So Anyway awarded What's Your Name, Mommy?
Major Bedhead awarded All Consuming
Sober Briquette awarded Yet Another Blooming Blog
Chicken and Cheese awarded Tater and Tot
Lala Land awarded Milk Money or Not, Here I Come