hello lovely child

There's no place like the mall.

They also sell enormous cinnamon rolls.

Last night at a department store, a gorgeous cosmetics rep let me sample a liquid foundation developed in France. Then she pitched a wrinkle serum she insists will spark a revolution and re-activate my youth in just one week.

No part of me wants revolutionary French goo. Except. Every cell in my body wants the goo. It’s from France. I want ultraviolet damage and my lines erased. In one week. I am middle aged and going to die, and the sight of this beauty queen's skin reminds me of that.

Whatever. I’m more frugal than vain. I won't drop 84 bucks…wait, did she just say seven days? I won’t be consumerized, but I become as passive as a hot dog. A pump's worth of serum not unlike mustard is drizzled on my wrinkly left hand. When commanded to massage it, I obey.

Then I muse, “So it hydrates the skin…is that how it works?” I am waaaaay off.

The skincare expert clarifies: “Noooooo! It gets into your genes!”

(My hormonally-imbalanced self whispers a prayer for help. Seriously. You know you're in trouble when a chromosomal implausibility sounds so utterly COOL.)

I needed to feel less ancient. So naturally I headed to a shop with posters of barely dressed models and deafening dance muzak blaring from the speakers. The fact I know full well this bare-blare combination triggers panic attacks is beside the point.

The point is, I am always a little possessed by a demon at the mall. The point is I found a canvas tote for 70% off, and it looks French! The point is shopping for luxuries is depressing and causes mall syndrome. The point is excessive anxiety leaves me wisdom-impaired and forces me into small talk with 16-year-old goddesses ringing me up.

“I wish this bag had outside pockets like my old one! And it would be nice if more of your dresses had pockets! Ya know? You should pass that along to the powers that be.”

Some of us clearly have the spiritual gift of awkwardness.

Everybody knows "powers that be" trips an uncool-old-geezer switch when spoken loudly over muzak into mall air. It is almost as fatal as “it is what it is.” You could feel it. Mayday! Mayday! There’s an old lady in here!

Her impeccably tweezed brows shot up as she shared: “Ha ha. Yeah. I once bought this dress, and I wore it and then I found out it had pockets! And I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW.”

Her admission temporarily exorcised the demon; no prayer needed. Just sayin. She “didn’t even know.”

Before I left the mall, I passed a chubby grandpa raving to a desperately bored twenty-something guy working at the bookstore. Grandpa yelled “YOU CAN ACTUALLY TAME A TIGER WITH ONE OF THOSE THINGS! IT’S A ONE WAY TRIP TO THE MOON, BUT IT WORKS!”

Maybe he said "Tiger" and not "a tiger." Both work for me. Like free ear candy.

Malls everywhere are struggling to breathe. A sad suburban joke like the midlife me. But the souls within them still connect. Imperfect strangers—some layering on more armor than others—accidentally touch each other and have trippy conversations.

As I exited the bookstore, a young woman with many tattoos held the door. She overheard the yelling grandpa too. We were both grinning. Our eyes met as she mouthed one syllable.

“DAMN!”

Michele has a husband, two children, a master's in counseling, and a blog at hellolovelychild.com.

It’s a phrase turned as often in this house as “there’s nothing to eat” and “I need ten bucks.” Whether Megan Fox is on the screen or there’s a new girl in class to dish about, “she’s so hot” inevitably crops up in daily conversation with me and my teen sons.

My hotness is an issue as well. Specifically, flashes of hotness, mood swings, and assorted pre-menopausal goodies the gynecologist assures will hang out for the next six years.

"I am way too young to be Kitty from That 70s Show,” I told my doctor. This was a lie.

My kids are growing up fast and consumed with the opposite sex at a time I have perhaps never felt more emotionally unstable and unequipped. The 17-year old is serious about Britney, a cheerful blonde hottie with impossibly long legs whom he has dated for more than a year. She rocks Hollister jeans so effectively, during most of her visits I feel compelled to blindfold the husband and younger son.

Britney is a farmer’s daughter—sensible, up at dawn with chores, and a blue ribbon winner at the fair with her designer goats. My son’s girlfriend could be the girlfriend of my dreams if I were not this middle aged basketcase daily brooding over premature grandchildren. If I was not this pathetic sulker dwelling on the reality I have been cast aside as my children’s former source of emotional comfort.

When the boys mention a new girl, they fork over little information so I sift through their clues like a profiler. They are lucky I am frugal and just google the young ladies. Face it. Background checks and P.I.s are expensive.

I might ask "Is she goth?"

Frequently I hear “OMG” as a response, but a “not really” raises a red flag every time.

In my frazzled, six years ‘til lift-off menopausal mind, the implications of gothic-ness run the gamut from peanuts to the paranormal. I mean, sure the hottie could be lovable free-spirited Pippy Longstocking goth-lite. But we could also have a social deviant on our hands, poised to burn the house down for her resentment of French Country design!

The more neurotic this hot mama’s thoughts turn, the more my sons seem to egg her on. The more she is egged on, the more she divides her time worrying about Satan-worshipping sexting stalkers and unwanted pregnancies. How to back off and live with peace and dignity as they date? I really have no clue. During a season I desperately need my wits I seem as emotionally overwrought as the puberty afflicted teens.

Still too young to date, the younger son has a lot to say about the ‘anas. The new girls in his section this year are Briana and Tatiana—the hottest, coolest chicks at school who share his passion for post-hardcore rock and British humor. Rather than accept the fact there will be a hot ‘ana around every corner for my young prince to discover, I instead fixate on the names of these two. It is messed up, I know, and I blame it on my dwindling estrogen supply.

The pronunciation of Briana’s name alienates all sentient beings in the North as well as anyone of European descent. The first syllable Bri is pronounced with a hard i, and the second is anna like the late Miss Smith.

“The Southern Belle version might be okay for school, but she needs to eventually upgrade” I say to him.

“She has options like the Italianesque Bree-ahna, or she could even subtract the ahna and allow the lone Bree to bump her skyward in status.”

That particular conversation was accompanied by a hotflash and followed up with Kitty dialing her OB-GYN’s number FAST.

Additional condemning evidence hot-mama needs professional help surfaces a few days later. When my son reports he will be hanging out with Tatiana after school, I ask about her nickname. After all, it is inconceivable ANY adolescent is brave enough to drag those four soap opera syllables through the halls. When he reveals Tatiana is indeed that brave, I cannot help myself.

“What about the fun-loving ‘Tot’ or even ‘Tator’?”

These hormonally generated suggestions cause my son's face to contort and his lips to say “She is never coming to this house–EVER.”

Obviously I need to move up that doctor’s appointment. No matter how menopausally wigged out or erratic hot mama feels—or how cuckoo for hotpuffs my sons become—there will always be a warm welcome for the ‘itneys and ‘anas at Kitty’s place.

Supervised, but really warm.


Michele has a husband, two children, a master's in counseling, and a blog at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.