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.

A few days ago I wore a white skort with a swoosh like this to WalMart to buy a birthday card. I own several similar skorts and have no clue whether it's vogue to wear them off the tennis court. The truth is, I have a checkered past with skorts. I love their femininity and ease, but they create drama I don't need.

Skorts make me stupid, get me snubbed, and are magnets for geriatric gigolos. Wait, what? Hold that thought.

I've never shared this before. I have genuine skort issues. I wore a fancy one to the University counseling center where I met with my very first client for my first ever session as a 22-year old therapist in grad school. I was extremely nervous. As soon as my client sat down, she complimented I LOVE YOUR SKIRT! I should have said thanks or silently struck a Columbo pose. Who the heck cares about the built-in shorts??? But I regretfully replied OH, IT'S A SKORT! I'M SO DECEITFUL, AREN'T I? HAHAHAHA{unending SCARY laughter}!!!

In the history of psychotherapy, no counselor in training has ever uttered a response so neurotically lame. I should know. I was required to review the videotape of that session with my supervisor (her brows furrowed...who let this freak into our program!?!). Trust. Skorts are the very worst thing to wear to therapy.


Fast forward to WalMart the other day.


There I was in the kicky deceitful skirt with the sleeveless white Nike dri-fit top, running shoes, a mom ponytail and most likely, Covergirl lipstain schmears to my 44-year old front teeth. That's when the sharp dressed fellow hit on me amid the Hallmark (this is the part where my ego would prefer to embellish: the man possessed a certain je ne sais quoi and brought to mind a mature Robert Pattinson...).

Only he did not.

My admirer was closer to Edward Cullen's human age. No capiche? Well, the dude at WalMart approached me with a nonagenarian swagger (um, yeah, I had to look up the term for folks who have blown out more than 89 birthday candles).

The guy was ancient and adorable and said I'M NOT TRYING TO HIT ON YOU, BUT THAT IS THE CUTEST OUTFIT I HAVE SEEN IN SOME TIME. I thanked him. NO NO NO. REALLY. CHAAAAAARRRRRMMMMMINGGGGG! He kept gushing. ARE YOUUUUUUU...HAPPILY MARRIED? I nodded. He continued. BECAUSE I MEAN...CHARMING.

Later he coincidentally (?) bumped into/stalked me near the store's exit.

It was a THAT just happened skort moment that would be totally creepy were it not for the fact I was wearing a most non-hoochie-riffic ensemble and playa was way way older than dirt and pathetic as it may be, I REALLY needed the smile.

A little later it hit me that WOW I MUST BE LOOKIN OLLLLD SINCE SUDDENLY MEN OVER 80 THINK THEY HAVE A SHOT...

And the epipahny both terrified and relieved the happily married no longer naive or practicing psychotherapy lover of skorts.

Lilacs are blooming. School's out for the summer. The teen-natives in our house are restless. You know what that means. Arts and crafts! Slip 'n Slide! Library central! Maybe. But not really. Actually, it’s moshing season for our highschoolers who like to thrash.

Do you speak mosh? Before I translate, you should be briefed on my current state of 'approaching menopause': a hormonal hot mess. Word on the street is moshing could be the next big thing for hotflashing hotties at midlife. We’ve got rage. We are already dripping with sweat. It's a second adolescence, and we like totally have the cash to pay the cover or whatev. Damn it, we need options beyond retail therapy, Pinot Grigio, and roller derby!

Except. Moshing is insane-o-cidal. YES, we need to blow off steam, but I’m not certain dance which ultimately seeks to cripple and maim is a worthy pharmaceutical substitute. Mosh is more than freestyle, “anything goes” body-slamming. It’s a science, and arguably, a religion. For example:

1. Footwear. If a shoe falls off while kicking it at a show, realize you are DONE dancing. Do not attempt to locate the shoe, delicately slip back into it, or busy your hands with laces. That shoe is history, and it’s best to get on with your life and resume thrashing (with a modicum of caution for the vulnerable shoeless tootsie). If the band takes a break you may have two seconds to step into the shoe. But you should honestly just resign yourself to barefootin’ it home.

2. When to Mosh. Unless you're feeling masochistic, do not EVER mosh to the sound check or the in-between band’s house music. What's wrong with you? There's a time and a place for moshlove, and while a dude recites the alphabet into the mic before showtime is not one of them. That house music before the band stumbles on stage? Also not the time for love! You could get yourself dead.

3. Injuries. Stop worrying about blood. It’s the nectar of mosh and releases mosh happy endorphins in the brain. Bleeding is under-rated! In fact, you’re not living up to your true potential if your lip is not bloodied at least once during a show. Make friends with pain. Embrace the sensation of accidentally stapling your tongue to the wall.

4. Prohibitive Busting of Moves. There’s plenty of room for originality and creativity while leaping and swatting invisible gnats in a circle pit. But do not under any circumstance decide to two-step. Trust. You’re better off strangling yourself with your intestines. Also, think twice before moshing with a drink, machete, or a cigarette in your hand. Your co-moshers don’t have to put up with that insensitive crap.

5. Gender Bias. It should be apparent by now that if you have a vagina, you have no business being anywhere near a testosteroney mosh pit. Duh. Even if you’re that free-spirited skater chick with zero fear for head injuries who believes there are worse ways to check out than death-by-mosh, stay the hayull away from the pit.

6. Circle Pit Etiquette. Inspired to join the pile-up in a mosh pit? Take heed. Do not ever pile unless (A) you know the words to the song, and (B) you intend to hit someone. Nobody wants your “pretending to know the lyrics, tentative, wussy a$$ self who can’t dish out pain” in the pile up. And just because you’re brave enough for the pile-up doesn’t mean you’re ready for the “wall of death.” As you rush at top speed with your eyes closed toward the dudes running at you, yes, there will be fleshy contact. You’ll smash another guy’s neck with your fist as hard as you can, and it’s perfectly acceptable as long as “hard as you can” is not “too friggin hard.”

One more thing. Don't become overwhelmed by the rules or overanalyze. No need to be a brain surgeon to understand or enjoy mosh...you just need to make friends with a really good one.

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

Navigating this phase of midlife and pre-menopause can be trippy. Moody highs and lows fluctuate moment to moment. Estrogen levels surge or bottom out, and I become the anxious and neurotic Betty Basketcase. Human contact becomes a problem (I know, I know,  the neuroscience and chemistry of imbalance is much more complicated than this, but on planet hotflash, we need simplified representations in our membrane in order to cope). Hormone levels miraculously balance, and I’m cool again. Totally cool like the other side of the pillow.

The moody mommy gig is made extra trippy living with hormonally challenged teenagers. When mommy is burning up, her teens know not to make eye contact, drop a crumb, or speak. We feel their pain when that mommy is in the house. But what kills us is when a rare, sparkly, even, happy aura--complete with unicorns and cotton candy--settles upon the mommy; when shitty attitudes move light years away, and those hormonal teens choose THIS such moment to be evil. It's as if they are possessed to send her back to Insanity Beach.

I deserve a peaceful reprieve from happy-happy-not-not disease. I do. Why stomp out my balanced buzz? This typical ‘in the kitchen’ exchange illustrates of what I rant.

Me (without any shred of a tone): Did you bring the garbage cans in yet?
L. (eldest son): STOP FREAKING OUT!
Me (calm and without a tone): I’m not freaking, sweetie. I’m asking a simple question.
L.: YOU’RE FREAKING OUT AGAIN! DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT!
Me (developing a hint of a tone): The volume of my voice has not changed. You’re imagining stuff. Come back to earth and just answer the friggin question.
L.: Uggggggh! I’ll bring ‘em in later when I’m out there.

The younger son, J. enters the kitchen.

J.: ElijahWoodPeepers is gonna come over to eat pizza bagels with me and practice doin’ backflips, k? Then we’re gonna jump on the trampoline.
Me (without any tone): Is all your homework done?
J. (as if I have plunged the rotary pizza cutter into his eye socket): STOP FREAKING OUT!!!
Me: This is NOT freaking out. And I absolutely cannot have you turning into your older brother. I’m just not havin’ it. Read my lips. Do. You. Have. Homework?
J. (blank expression): I don’t have to listen to this.
Me (with a completely gone bye-bye mental TONE as I scan the room for pizza cutters or weapons of minor destruction): OHMYGOSH. NOOOOOOBODY’S COMING OVER TO THIS HOUSE. NO ONE!!! YOU WILL GET THAT HOMEWORK DONE BEFORE YOU DO YER FLIPS!! AND YER SKATING AND YER TRAMP JUMPING! And YOUUUUUUUUUU! (pointing a threatening finger at L.) GET YER LAZY BUTT OUT TO THE CURB AND BRING IN THOSE CANS!!!

And then they obey me.

I have no explanation why these offspring have lost their appetite for a mother not freaking out. Why they must upset her happy place and unleash the freak at all costs. Can we honestly keep blaming sleep deprivation (both theirs and mine)?

The combustion of puberty and menopause appears unstoppable. I'm told there will be a return to love, and this discombobulation is preparing us for their launch from the nest. But sweet mother how pathetic is it that after all my training in counseling and interpersonal dynamics, a freak show continues to be the most effective ammo in my arsenal?

Each day brings a new show, one more hostile tone, one more conflict between Generation Me and a momwitch. More cruelty. More mood shifts. And since estrogen is a diurnal cycling beast, moody momwitch occasionally frets herself to sleep. Of all things in the friggin universe to lament, she wonders how in the world she'll manage someday to be separated from the very children who torture her.

She's no masochist. Probably. She simply understands that Unicorn Paradise or Hormonal Chernobyl, someday she'll be lost without these young men.

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

My son J. is fifteen. He and the rest of his shaggy-haired, Generation Text posse are adorable right now. The MySpacers listen to Screamo. They skate, snowboard, and videotape each other’s backflips.

They value the hotness of high school girls but truly value each other more.

With ninth grade just about under their belts, they have been sufficiently humbled (read: pummeled, wedgied, and degraded by upperclassmen) and have yet to score drivers’ licenses. Hence, they’re still decent to their parents.

Dude! Everything J. and his friends do and say makes outstanding copy I can’t ignore.

A few days ago, they had a shortened school day, and I was asked to pick up a few freshman friends and deliver them to old stomping grounds—middle school. A faculty member had requested they speak to naïve graduating eighth graders about what to expect in high school. They were stoked to be chosen to scare straight incoming freshman, and it was gratifying to see them enthusiastic to share their newfound wisdom.

A craptastic snag occurs upon this chauffeur’s arrival to high school.

Eight exuberantly hopeful backpack toting adolescents greeted my SUV--which seats just five. At this point, all responsible law abiding parents with half a brain would have hatched a plan B for transport. Those same wise parents would see an ideal “teaching moment” about safety to benefit the teens for a lifetime.

Most days I’m on my game. But at this particular juncture I was a pile of dumb. Paralyzed by a temporary lapse of smartitude. Trapped within the revolving doors of the bad mommy idiot zone.

Trapped? Sixteen friggin PUPPY EYES held me captive! Eight sincere, sweet, skinny matchstick jeaned boys just five minutes from manhood! The strength of the bond between Generation Me brothers proved too much! (Less caffeine is undoubtedly in my future.)

In my head, I rationalized the car abuse: IT’S A SHORT TRIP! In…out…NOBODY GETS HURT! OH THE GENIUS OF BOLDNESS! (Fairly sure Goethe was not referencing criminal carpools.)

I channeled my inner cool mom (who looks great in a skintight DIP ME IN CHOCOLATE AND THROW ME TO THE SWIM TEAM t-shirt, btw.) and let them board. Indeed my coolness was reflected in their irises.

That’s when my son said it.

J.: Dude, it’s like the Underground Railroad!
POSSE: Totally!

Eight bright young men and one renegade mommy wondered how we would ever fit in the vehicle. At first, four boys shared space in the trunk area with a large laundry basket filled with crap; but, alas, the hatch would not shut. The smallest manchild of the trunk then squeezed in ever so close to my steering wheel, while the basket-o-crap moved to a lap in the backseat. The hatch latched.

I instructed the boys to both hide and cease breathing, lest attention be drawn to the Promised Land car-tastrophe. Just before departing, I glanced over my right shoulder, spying the darkest-skinned bud literally crushed between two friends, weighted down thoroughly with the laundry basket.

CRUSHED: (hushed and barely breathing) I feel just like Harriet Tubman.

OMG, I love these Underground Railroad kids who nearly suffocated in my car.

Freedom! No one was busted in spite of my impaired judgment. Harriet and the boys escaped, sailing into middle school unscathed. It was an ignorant move this dumb-as-toast mom will not repeat, but SWEET William Still ON A WAFFLE CONE, she drove them north safely.

As safely and cautiously as ‘a cool mom clandestinely transporting skaters to free states or Canada or middle school to make the world a more awesomacious place’ could possibly drive.

Michele is rarely mistaken for a cool mom or Harriet Tubman. She has a husband, two children, a master's in counseling and a blog at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.

Shipshape relief for families in the real world!
by Michele Ranard, M.Ed.
640 words

As a parent, your brain probably swims with an endless list of chores and responsibilities this very second. It’s madness! How will you get it all done? Deep cleansing breath. That’s better. Now consider the following shortcuts from a mom who understands frazzled.

1. Discover Ditching Dinner-time Drama.

“OMG, I hate homemade lasagne!”

“Who wants fish tacos!?!”

Stop asking the family what they want for dinner. Decide what you’ll serve and cease to make separate dishes for each member. If they hate the dish, offer cereal and yogurt as the alternative. It’s not evil. It’s called mommy is nicer when she’s not totally insane.

2. Witness the Wonder of Wardrobe Wee-cycling.

Doing laundry is fulfilling. Not. Who says the kids’ clothes must be washed after wearing something once? Do Kevin’s jeans emit a funky smell? Is Nicole’s sweater bloodstained? Was Blake’s concert tee dragged through the muddy swamp? If not, insist they wear the stuff again (and, okay, again!) to minimize dirty laundry. This is a very Tommy Lee rockstar way to live, by the way.

3. Change How You Change ‘Em.

Don’t buy just one package of wipes or diapers at a time. Stock the changing table/station with diapers, cream, and essentials, but do have supplies in other places too. This will save time by preventing a trip running upstairs or out to the van for the diaper bag.

4. ‘Off the Chain’ Outfit Options (that’s urban-speak for awwwwwesome!).

There’s nothin’ quite like ultimate fighting with your kids over the “perfect outfit” in the morning, is there? Put an end to time wasteful hissy fit a.m.’s where they cannot decide what garments FEEL right to slip into. Without guilt (it’s your mental health at stake, for cryin’ out loud) use Sunday nights to pick out a week’s worth of clothes. Buy a nifty cubby type thing to hold the outfits if it reinforces the smart habit. Then USE the thing.

5. Crush on Carpools.

Gas is expensive. Carpooling is great for the environment and your mental health. Your time is valuable. Get used to sharing the responsibility with other parents of driving (as a bonus, you’ll get to know your kids’ cool buds and teammates better!).

6. Beyond Birthday Brooding.

Keep your eyes peeled for smart non-expensive unisex birthday gifts when you’re out shopping. Snatch up the bargains. You’ll save yourself from angst-filled last minute scenarios before the bash because you’ll already have something ready to wrap.

7. Feel Free to Fake it.

It’s okay to buy the cookies for the bake sale, party, or fundraiser if you don’t have time to bake. Kids have loved Oreos for years and years for a reason, and “from scratch” has never meant “because I love you more.”

8. Pinch Precious Pennies Properly.

Don’t lose your mind driving from store to store seeking the best price on small ticket items. Use coupons when you can, but the cost of gas and your time may not make all that running around worth it in the end.

9. Cleverly Cook a Couple.

Begin thinking in twos when you cook a meal. Roast extra chicken for the next night’s casserole. Make enough Swedish meatballs so you can toss some in with tomorrow evening’s spaghetti. Double the recipe. Cut your manic mommy-stress in half.

10. Calendars, Cork, and Chaos Control.

You know that super annoyingly organized friend of yours who reminds you of Martha? The one with the genius dry-erase board near her back door with every family activity sketched out for the next three months? Just a thought…but maybe she’s on to something. Go ahead and invest in something similar or a good old-school corkboard. Encourage your kids to jump on the “look we actually have a schedule” bandwagon.

Breathe in the sweet oxygen of a life that may not be perfect, but feels way less disorganized.

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

The 14-year-old hippie surfer son and I had a date two days ago. With lunch and the mall on the agenda, I was over-enthusiastic since these outings are infrequent. He was uncharacteristically shy accompanying me in public, lagged ten paces behind, and became catatonic when asked the simplest question in Hot Topic.

“Do you like this thing with the skulls?”

Eyes grow wide with no response.

“Hey—aren’t these skulls way cute? And look, it’s your size.”

Eyes grow crazy terrified and jaw tenses as he scans Hot Topic for hiding places.

“How ‘bout this studded belt…?”

Ditches me for Urban Outfitters.

When I catch up, he whispers “I’ve NEVER liked skulls. YOU like them. Plus they’re green. I will NEVER wear green skulls.”

His rolling eyes never fail to catch me off guard. Internally, all kinds of questions bubble up.

Did I ditch MY mother when shopping at 14? Did I cruelly treat her like toxic waste for favoring skulls? When did I become the completely obnoxious mom limping past Cinnabon in beaded Indian platforms with untreated scoliosis and a pedicure wound? When did the kids begin to be disgusted by the "sexy rose” lip stain which now strangely stripes my front teeth 90% of the time? And when did I morph into this suffocating nag, bribing her kids for their time?

Maybe the metamorphosis occurred around the time we discovered my parental love language. It is “smothering control freak.”

"Where would you like to eat, sweetie?”

“I don’t care.”

“Panera it is then.”

“Not Panera.”

“It’s your pick – what sounds good?”

“I’m hooked on Crunchwrap-Supremes.”

“Dude, that is so unhealthy. How badly is your heart set on a Crunchwrap?”

“Panera is fine. Whatev’.”

“No, Taco Bell’s okay. We’ll have more time to shop.”

I concede to live dangerously so it’s Crunchwraps all around. We listen to Bless the Fall while devouring over-sized grilled envelopes of processed cheese, and I feel better about how our date is going.

We head out for more shopping, and I become a hero when I say yes to new headphones he cannot live without at T. J. Maxx. Though I am still limping with the pedicure lesion, I swear he is glaring less. Then it happens.

It bears mentioning my son is pretty von pretty like Rob Lowe in St. Elmo’s Fire. He has shoulder length hair he tosses for dramatic effect. As we approach the fitting rooms to try on jeans, I make it a point to say "HE would like to try these," stressing HEEEE to the fitting room attendant. She misses the gender identification entirely and leads him to the ladies’side.

Mortified, the eighth grader doubles back to the men’s area as I shout “Boy! He needs a boy room!” The poor woman’s perplexed expression told us she remained unconvinced.

The jeans he selects are not my favorite, but I graciously give them the green light. I say “graciously” since I agreed to them without ever having seen them modeled which is breaking momcode as far as I am concerned. In addition to being fatally frugal, it is difficult for me to agree to any apparel purchase without a virtual fashion show. I need the catwalk, some Zoolander blue steel, and a few spins before I am convinced.

Last on our “to do” list was a Target run for underwear. We throw boxers and Bandaids into the cart since the bloody skater goes through bandages quicker than grass through a goose. We nearly escape without issue.

Ahead of us in line, a petite 60ish blonde smiles then flings an arm around my sons' shoulders, sneaking a peek into the cart. “Look who we have here!” Ambushed by his Honors English teacher, the surfer immediately regrets ever leaving the house.

I am a slow study, but some parenting wisdom is taking root. For example, there appears NOT to be a no-fail formula for bonding with adolescents. Who knew this?

One-on-one time? An admirable concept ON PAPER, but mano-a-mano in public places without disguises? At your own risk for non-sadist types.

I am no parenting expert, but I will leave you with one more lesson learned. Teenagers prefer expensive techie gadgets, new headphones, smoking weed, and even decapitation to a public drive-by parent-teacher conference in the express lane at Target.

You're welcome.

Michele Ranard loves shopping online. She has a husband, two sons, and a master’s in counseling. Visit her at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.

Before the guests arrive, Martha melts down
600 words

by Michele Ranard

Two years have passed since I cleaned the inside of my refrigerator. I am otherwise immaculate. I feel I have simply earned the right to a certain measure of filth in my castle.

It is true I am blessed with OCD and enjoy a beautiful uncluttered nest. Most days the place appears to be tidy, if not spare on the surface. But since I live with teenagers who lack the gene for OCD, our home's condition today suggests Mr. and Mrs. Clean have been out of the country for months.

Exhibit A? The basement. A filthy mancave where milkshakes and mud have comingled without de-fungal interference from anyone. Tie-dye parties, bloody ultimate forts (don’t ask), and heavy metal band rehearsals with un-showered groupies contribute to the foul aroma permeating this teen dungeon. When my immune system is stronger I intend to venture “into the unclean” with Lysol and a gas mask.

Exhibits B and C? Kitchen cupboards and closets so utterly crammed with overflow we have simply ceased using them. If you require a dish, please wear the helmet located next to the liability waiver there on the crusty countertop.

I confess I could co-exist for weeks within this teen-trashed homemaker hell were it not for the occasional itch to entertain friends. It always seems like an excellent idea to invite people over for dinner. Daydreams of us cozying up to a crackling fire lift my mood in the dead of winter.

Except as soon as the invitations have been sent, the daydream turns to terror, and Mrs. Clean has a panic attack. Her contamination will soon be on display! Evidence of her lazy teens will be revealed in broad daylight! Less disturbed and more civilized souls will be poised to judge the potentially condemning condition of her abode!

She visualizes herself manually guiding horrified guests toward the one room she found time to hose down. The thought will occur that the beachy chic décor of this living room quite borders on acceptable until her gaze and that of her guests meets the empty black box. It is indeed full of soot and not the romantic crackling fire she completely forgot to build.

Mrs. Clean is 48 hours away from welcoming guests to a dinner party for which she has neither cleaned, nor planned a menu. It occurs to her that if she fakes a brain aneurism, she may avoid addressing the urine-infused magnet for scum known as her powder room. And if she accidentally drops a tube of biscuit dough on her pinky, the clumsy cast would surely preclude her ability to clean toilets and mop floors.

The tube is returned to the sludge filled frig. There will be no visit to the ER today. Today Mrs. Clean will save the world. She will pen a list of chores, assigning a few to the three RockBand addicts in the mancave. Then she will execute them (the chores, not the addicts) as she channels Ms. Stewart and Julia. After all, she has performed this dance a hundred times and should know it by heart.

Today Mrs. Clean will dig deep. And there she will discover extra reserves of strength welling from a prideful place deep within her that is terrified her friends will see her for who she truly is: a procrastinating, poorly groomed, homemaking imposter who lives with three men in filth day to day, cleaning only for visitors. And drawing from those reserves, she will rise up and toil and sweat and shop and bake until she is certain all tracks have been covered and her secret remains.

That is, until one of her guests opens the refrigerator door.

Michele Ranard is a professional counselor, academic tutor, and freelancer with a cheeky blog at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.

by M. Ranard


“Come fair children! Retrieve Kipling and Milton from thy Power Ranger backpacks. Let us recline on eighteenth century Gustavian daybeds to devour sweet literature in the library. No, Jean-Charles, not the west wing library. Alas, fumes remain strong in the west as the paint on ceiling frescoes dries still. This was what I thought motherhood would be like when I daydreamed about it as a teen.

I blame it on my parents. They preached good manners, proper grammar, and wrinkle-free wardrobes. Indeed, my father was a freak for creases down the ol’ Gloria Vanderbilts, and Mom chased after us with an acrylic hairbrush for saying “shut up” (oddly, “shut your trap!” earned only a glare).

So of course my 14-year-old self thought I could do it better. And baby I wanted more—a more dignified household, complete with a sophisticated manor in which Ivy League sons and daughters clamored for advice. Where classical ballerinas and polo players begged to visit the Louvre. Of handsome offspring arriving at the dinner table in Lacoste button-downs the tones of Mary Cassatt’s palette.

“Oh Mother! Would it be quite all right if I skipped Simon’s sleepover on the yacht? I do so wish to add flourish to my report on Emily Dickinson due in six weeks!”
A breeze would waft through the main villa’s north clerestory windows enhancing our home’s interior scent of Ivory soap and linen…

As it turns out, 1980 was a bad year for prognostication.

Those Izod-clad kids never showed up. And it seems unlikely my sons will ever play polo. Worse, they’d struggle to name a common interest between us, including Ivory soap. Dude—my kids are too lazy for soap.

Gone is the image of refined persons reclining with me as a gentle breeze kisses our faces enraptured by fine literature. Still, I have chosen to look at the positive aspects of my children’s less than royal behavior. For example:

Mahhhhhhhm! Outta axe spray.
A fine example of their mastery of American English—and a sexy-smart substitute for showering, as well.

Dude! Me and Colin BALLED it up today—we PONED.
Another excellent illustration of their superior grasp of current idiomatic expression. For those of you still clinging to 20th century speech, “pone” is gamer talk for “power own”.

Don’t EVER ask Obama to step aside!
This exemplifies a polite manner of threatening someone. Me, for example. Such as when I ask my eldest prince to clean his room.

This family sucks!
Another modern colloquialism that, roughly translated, means “My teen experience leaves much to be desired. I am very distressed, mom.”

The roast smells like butt.
Despite its richly expressive tone, this colorful turn of phrase still confounds me. I’m fairly sure I’d sport a cranial disfigurement from a certain hairbrush had I ever uttered it, but times change.

I do admit that my kids make my family of origin look like royals. But then, I too have lowered my standards with age. The OCD I inherited from my neatnick parents does not encompass ironing. In fact, my kids would likely mistake a steam iron for a waffle one, having never laid eyes on either appliance in person.

I also did away with the idea of family road trips in a vintage Jaguar (too cramped) and that equestrian arena (I don’t need anything else to smell like butt around here).

I have no idea when reality shattered my dreams, or when, exactly, I embraced it. I can only assume extreme exhaustion negated my desire for extreme perfection.

But hey, I ended-up with two boys who are totally slammin’ and alt-worthy.

And I’m still angling for the villa.

Michele Ranard is a professional counselor, academic tutor, and freelancer with a cheeky blog at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.