Wild Turkey

It’s hard to believe that with Thanksgiving just a little more than two weeks away, our “turkey on the hill” is still engaging in a Mexican standoff with everyone who dares to pull in or out of the driveway here at the station.  In fact, he has apparently expanded his territory to include the street.  Last week, I got caught in a traffic jam two days in a row while he stood in the middle of Knob Road pulling over cars like a sworn patrol officer.

You think I’m joking, but most of us have been attacked at least once.  Many of our savvier employees have even gone as far as to video him with their cell phone while he chases them up and down the hill, and if you roll your window down … God help you!  He looks at you like he could chew your face off.  One of our photographers decided to document his behavior the week of Halloween and post it on YouTube.  Check it out for yourself.  THIS is what we’re up against!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7hzbwHgtOaY

I know we’re in the middle of wildlife central here in middle Tennessee, so let me pose this question: Does anyone out there have any idea what this guy is searching so desperately for?  Was he not held enough as a baby?  Is there some deep hole he’s trying to fill?  At first, I thought maybe it was a death wish.  Then it dawned on me that maybe someone actually gave him a shot of Wild Turkey.  Like a moth to a flame, he’s trying to score another hit.  I seriously cannot figure it out.

Occasionally, he’ll have some friends hanging out with him, but apparently they sneak away from him in the dead of night when he’s sleeping. He’s the kind of guy that, if you took him out on 2nd Avenue one weekend, you’d automatically assume he was going to pick a fight at Rippy’s and end up getting hauled down to the police station.

On second thought, perhaps he’s a SHE.  You know how it is with women.  If you get more than five of us together, there’s almost always one angry bully in the group whose self loathing forces her to constantly try to ruin everyone else’s good time.  (Excluding my beloved Ya Ya’s of course.)  Maybe this is that proverbial mean girl, in turkey form.  I’ve already been warning my daughter about her.  Fortunately, they don’t usually emerge until right around puberty.  I think I’ll bring her to the station next week on a field trip so she can see the phenomenon in its primitive form.

Anyway, if you’re in a bind this year financially, and you’re looking for Thanksgiving dinner … you know where we are.  I’m just saying! This turkey could feed a family of 10.

Stay tuned!  Next week, I’m unveiling my latest installment of viewer hate e-mail.  It took me several months to come up with the right mix, but I’ve accumulated what I think you’ll see is an entertaining batch.

One down … Two to go

Isn’t it strange how in January it feels like you’ve stepped onto a slow-moving carousel, but by Halloween, your life is spinning out of control like you’re in a Tilt-a-Whirl?  I don’t know about you, but I’m already feeling nauseous.

I don’t understand how it happens so predictably every single year.  You’d think that eventually we’d figure out how to manage three holidays in three months.  The problem is, if you’re like us, you also have to squeeze in four family birthdays, a Hannah Montana concert, the premiere of “New Moon,” a viewing of “This is It” (which is only on for two weeks, of course), breakfast with Santa, a trip to the Rockettes and some holiday parties sprinkled in between.  I need a nerve pill just thinking about it all!

I don’t remember it being like this before I had a child, but then again, I don’t remember much of anything about my life pre-baby.  I have some photo albums at home that seem to suggest it existed, but that’s sort of like finding the footprint of a dinosaur.  It’s not real unless you’re staring it in the face.

I think the doctors secretly perform some kind of lobotomy on mothers during childbirth so we have amnesia about how carefree our lives were before we decided to procreate.  If we actually realized how much responsibility we were taking on, half of us would probably have a nervous breakdown and try to jump out of the car on the ride home from the hospital.

I love when I call my single girlfriends this time of year.  They’re all sooooo busy.  What with the working out, meeting friends for drinks, traveling the country, learning to speak French …  it’s almost IMPOSSIBLE to squeeze in a lunch.  I want to slap them.  Two years ago, one of “the girls” called to see if she could take Dalton to a movie called “The Red Balloon.”  It was several weeks before Christmas, and I thought it was an extremely nice gesture.

Unfortunately, she showed up to brunch 30 minutes late with a massive hangover from the Christmas party she’d just left several hours prior to our meeting.  To make matters worse, the movie turned out to be a 34-minute documentary with almost no dialogue about a balloon that floats around the streets of Paris.  Despite the “critical acclaim” of this 1956 flick, Dalton got bored five minutes in.  To her 7-year-old brain, it was just a balloon floating around aimlessly.  Apparently, she mortified my girlfriend by talking through the whole thing, asking for popcorn (which they weren’t selling) and demanding to leave during the post-film lecture series.  Did I mention that my friend is single?  The truth is … there’s a lot about it I don’t miss and would rather forget.  We still love her.  She meant well.

So, another year has passed.  Thanksgiving is up to bat.  As usual, my husband and mother are in charge of the food.  My dad and I are in charge of drinking coffee all day and devising our battle plan for Black Friday.  Three years ago, he actually sat in line outside Best Buy all night … in his motorized wheelchair … to get a deal on a laptop he never uses.  For him, it’s all about the game.

I have no idea what the allure is for me.  I’ve never saved a dime on anything.  In fact, one year, I bought something at Target my daughter didn’t even ask for because it was being sold at a “doorbuster” price.  Two weeks later, I took it back, lost the return receipt and never got the credit back on my card.  The week before Christmas, I had to go RE-BUY it at full-price when she decided she DID want it.  Are you following me?  I paid for it TWICE!  Thankfully, I have to work this year on the day after Thanksgiving.  I’ll just be acting as a consultant for my dad.

I’m already cringing every time my daughter turns on the television set in fear of what kind of worthless item the marketing gurus are going to sell her on this year.  Two years ago, it was Floam.  Last year, I had to rush out to Walgreens at the last minute and buy those glorified pipe cleaners known as Bendaroos.  About six months ago, she started asking for a Snuggie, but I convinced her it was too big.  It’s not that any of it is that expensive, it’s just WORTHLESS!  OK … I can’t really vouch for the Snuggie, but the other two are, in my opinion, a complete waste of money.

Anyway, the race is on.  You officially have three weeks and one day to get your act together before Thanksgiving.  Run, run, run!

Party Pooper

I can’t believe it, but I am less than a week away from hosting my first pyramid scheme party.  Trust me … I can’t believe it either.  I mean, I’m a regular attendee at these sorts of things: Pampered Chef, Prestige, Arbonne, Lia Sophia, Kelly’s Kids, Cabi — you name it, and I’ve been to one of their parties.  I’ve just always felt like there was a certain stigma associated with hosting a party where a) My friends are coerced into becoming part of the company’s sales force, or b) I get a discount while they pay full price.  You know how it works: The more they buy, the bigger discount I get.  How pedestrian!

In fact, my sister-in-law and I used to make fun of people who engaged in such shenanigans.  We affectionately nicknamed her ex-roommate an “Amwaynian” because of her all consuming part-time job selling Amway dishwashing detergent and recruiting people to work “under” her.  Every other week, she would haul a bunch of strangers into their living room to indoctrinate them into what we liked to think of as an above-ground cult.  It was all fun and games until last year when I discovered 150 necklaces with matching earrings in my sister-in-law’s closet.  I don’t think she’s a full-fledged “associate,” but I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t admit it either way.  I instituted the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy.

Over the years, I’ve come to realize that some of the parties aren’t so bad.  For example, I have an excellent food chopper and a mini spatula I bought at a Pampered Chef party several years ago.  The chopper gets used about twice a year, but I’ve yet to christen the spatula.  Who cares?  I always leave those things stuffed.  It’s like an all-you-can-eat buffet.  Typically, the host gets up front and shows everyone how “easy” it is to be the next Emeril Lagasse while using their miracle kitchen gadgets.  About the only thing they DON’T sell is the one thing I need, which is the desire or the skills needed to actually use their products.  Now THAT my husband would pay for!

The Arbonne party was entertaining enough.  I got a little freaked out when they started selling us all on the libido cream.  It seemed a little far-fetched to think that a little moisturizer in the crook of your elbow (which is where they recommended) would have much of an effect one way or another.  Of course, my entire crew tested it out anyway.  No harm no foul, right?  The bottle’s still sitting underneath my bathroom sink … full.

So you’re probably wondering at this point … how did I get myself into this predicament anyway?  Last month, I went to a kids clothing party and absolutely LOVED the entire collection.  It was like no other network marketing experience I’ve ever had in that I went through the racks, picked out a few things I liked and wrote a check.  That was it!  Not ONCE were any high-pressure sales tactics used, and not only that … there was no spiel.  You know — the part where they hand me a Mercedes key chain and tell me the car could be next if only I would Carpe Diem.  It simply never happened!  I’m not sure the company’s going to make it.  I think that stuff’s mandatory to survival.

Anyway, I could go on and on, but I just got an e-mail invitation to a Cabi party at my good friend Lorie Taylor’s house. And I’m NOT joking!

New Moon Rising

Is it wrong that I’ve spent six months counting down the days until the release of “New Moon” or that I’m burning a candle at my desk night now in honor of tonight being the official one-month countdown to the premiere?  I feel like a small child waiting for my birthday to roll around.  For those of you who’ve been in a coma or perhaps stranded on Gilligan’s island for the past 18 months … allow me to explain.  “New Moon” is the next installment of the “Twilight” saga, which is coming out in all its cinematic glory one month from today.  Teens (and immature adults like me) all over the country are on the edge of our seats and have been for quite some time now.

You may remember that back in the winter I wrote a whole blog about my obsession with the vampire series.  It all started one rainy Sunday afternoon when my husband stumbled into the house with a DVD of “Twilight.”  No one particularly wanted to watch it, including me, but we got bored enough that we did anyway.  Trust me when I say my husband has never regretted anything more in his LIFE.

Not only is “Twilight” the biggest chick flick on the planet, but it’s also geared for 13-year-old audience members.  Imagine watching it as a grown man.  I’m sure “New Moon” will be chock-full of the same teenage angst.  The fact that I’m going to the midnight showing on opening night probably means that I’m either having some kind of midlife crisis or a mental breakdown; I can’t decide which.  On the bright side, I did finally stop calling my husband Edward a couple of months ago when I could see how emotionally scarred he was becoming every time I chose a vampire’s name over his.

Of course, I read the entire 10,000 page series … in one week!  No self-respecting fan could hold their head up without having done the same.  I’m a little torn, though.  Originally, I was set to buy a “Team Edward” T-shirt for the premiere, but after seeing some of the movie trailers, I’m starting to waffle.  I never thought I’d say this, but I might have to switch to “Team Jacob.”  Now that he’s ditched the ridiculous-looking Indian wig and started working out 24/7, I’m starting to see the attraction.  I can definitely understand why Bella might go for him over the pasty-white, skinny guy who, according to the tabloids, doesn’t bathe regularly.

Who could have possibly predicted this time last year that I’d even be engaging in such lunacy? After all, we’re talking about a love story pitting a group of vampires against a pack of werewolves.  Have I really stooped that low?  I mean, am I that strapped for entertainment? Yes! Yes, I am.

I mean, I’ll admit there’s a part of me that feels stupid for being reeled in by this insanely far-fetched story, but there’s another side of me that wonders what’s so wrong with indulging a little guilty pleasure every now and then.

It’s sort of like buying a tube of lipstick when you know you can’t afford it.  Does it make perfect sense to belly up to the Clinique counter and buy it?  No.  Do you feel better the next day after applying it? Yes.  Not everything in life makes sense.  Vampires and werewolves actually fit into that category, but sometimes you have to throw caution to the wind.  Bottom line: I’m financing the lipstick and wearing it to the movies.  As long as it doesn’t hurt anyone, I think it’s actually healthy to engage in something mindless every now and then.  I don’t believe in vampires and werewolves, but for now … “New Moon” is my mindless something.  Find yours.

New York Diaries

For years, I’ve been telling my daughter we’d take her to New York City for her 10th birthday.  It just seemed like a nice, even number.  I thought she’d probably appreciate the city more once she got a little older.  I didn’t even go myself until I was 19!  Surely she wouldn’t call Child Services on us if we waited until she was 10.  About two months ago, she made me an offer I couldn’t refuse: “Mommy, if you take me to New York for fall break, we can skip the big birthday party this year.”  Think … dream sequence from “Wayne’s World.”  It was like harps started playing.  This was music to my ears.  I actually got dizzy and had to pull the car over.

Any parent who’s ever orchestrated a kid’s birthday party can relate to what I’m saying here.  First, they’re expensive.  Second, they’re a ton of work.  There are the invitations, then there’s the decision over where to have it without duplicating what every other one of her friends has already done.  Sadly, that’s just the beginning.  Once the party actually arrives, it’s like herding cats trying to keep everyone’s child entertained and/or uninjured.  The gifts are almost always opened in cyclone-like fashion … making it impossible to know who gave what.  In recent years, some of the other moms have started sending out thank you cards with amazing party pics printed on the front.  One mom even went so far as to get an individual shot of the birthday girl with every guest so that the photo thank you cards were personalized.  Shoot me!!!!  I’m lucky if I even remember to bring our camera to the party.  One year we had to borrow one!

So, for weeks, we’ve been planning our trip to NYC.  My first stop was to McKay’s used bookstore to buy all of the cheap tourism paraphernalia I could find.  In the “New York with Children” book, we quickly found a couple of must-do activities, including a trip to the American Girl emporium to have lunch with our doll, Emma.  One imperative thing they forgot to mention in the guide is that you should actually bring your doll with you.  I’m serious!  For you American Girl neophytes, let me explain that it’s crucial that the doll and your child have matching outfits.  We spent an hour the night before our trip packing Emma’s bags to make sure her clothes all matched Dalton’s.  At 6 a.m., right there at gate A7, we had our first M-E-L-T-D-O-W-N.  All I could think was, “Is it too late to throw a birthday party?” Of course, my husband offered no support whatsoever.  He was just staring at me blankly like it was entirely my fault, which it kind of was.  I did what most any parent would do under the circumstances and threw some money at the problem.  We now have a new doll named Rebecca … who now needs her own bed to match Emma’s.  Again … shoot me!!!

I’d say all in all, the trip was a huge success.  Of course, there were a few minor setbacks you’d expect on an adventure such as this one, like the day we got off on the wrong bus, walked 45 blocks to see the World Trade Center memorial and never actually found it.  Guess who was staring blankly at whom on this one?  I wanted to kill my husband.  We walked so far it felt like my big toe had separated from the rest of my foot.  Convinced that I had a case of gout, we decided to hop the subway to our next destination … another huge mistake.  I can’t tell you how many underground trains we got on and off of to end up nowhere near our hotel.  Here’s the best piece of advice I can give any tourist going to New York: TAKE A CAB!  They’re cheaper, and you’ll avoid losing hours of valuable sightseeing time trying to figure out the Rubik’s cube that is the New York subway system.

Another thing I took away from the whole experience is that everything in New York costs 10 times as much as it should.  For example, I thought I’d reached a point in my life where I wouldn’t get sticker shock from something as simple as a crab cake, but apparently I was wrong.  One night on the way to our hotel, we decided to go into the Waldorf Astoria to show it to Dalton and just warm up in general.  After having a $12 cup of hot chocolate, we decided to just get something “light” to eat.  $160 dollars later, we had consumed a bowl of tomato soup, an order of crab cakes, a club sandwich and three salads.  I needed a stiff drink, but at that point … we couldn’t afford one!

The only other must-do item on our list was to see “Wicked” on Broadway.  I bought the tickets on the Internet sight unseen for $140 a piece … and that was the matinee!  I kid you not when I say we were on the very LAST row of the Gershwin Theatre.  Any further back and we would have been sitting in the booth with the lighting crew.  It was so stupid it was actually comical.  Despite the partially blocked view, it was, hands down, the best play I’ve ever seen.  Our savings account defiinitely took a beating this fall broke (ah… I mean break), but as the marketing gurus for American Express might say … “Trip to New York … priceless.”

Flu Shots Galore

Is it me, or does it feel like the flu shot is being pimped out on every street corner this year?  It’s not like I’m against vaccinations.  After contracting a full-blown case of the flu back in 2003 that eventually turned into pneumonia, I’m probably one of the biggest proponents of the flu shot you’ll ever meet.  Still, there’s something a little unsettling about just how desperate everyone seems this year to stake their claim on people’s upper arms.

The other day, we got a call at the house from what the caller ID revealed was the Kroger pharmacy.  Convinced I must have inadvertently forgotten to pick up a prescription, I actually decided to pick up the phone.  There was no person on the other end of the line.  It was just some automated recording … making sure I knew they were offering flu shots this year at the pharmacy.  No!  Really?  I hadn’t heard.  I desperately wanted to prank call them and ask if they could work me in at the drive through.  Who knows?  Maybe they’ve discovered a way to squeeze people’s arms through that little drawer to speed things along.

I took our dog to the kennel today and half way expected them to offer me a “BOGO”: I buy the kennel cough shot, and they throw in a flu shot for free.  I can’t help but wonder if the big drug companies are offering some kind of performance-based bonus this year to those who can dole out the most vaccine.  Whatever is going on, I fell for it.  Today, Shots Etc. came to the station to stab us in the bicep.  (I’m not joking.  That’s the name of the company.)  As always, I wore my cotton ball-covered Band-Aid around for the balance of the work day.  If you’re going to shed blood, you might as well milk it for all it’s worth.  In fact, they somehow even talked me into getting a shot of B-12 while I was in there.  I must have “gullible” written all over my face.  What kind of fool gets up-sold on a shot?!  No wonder my husband never lets me get out of the car when we’re trying to negotiate something.

If your company isn’t offering flu shots … don’t worry.  I’m sure you’ll soon be able to pop into the nearest Jiffy Lube.  Chances are you can get a shot in their waiting room while your engine gets revamped.  I’m sure the Lexus dealership must be doing it.  I’ve heard they have homemade cookies in there and everything!

I want to know whatever happened to that scare a couple of years ago when we ran out of the vaccine.  Isn’t anyone worried about the system being depleted with all this additional publicity?  I guarantee if you count, there are more flu ads on right now than beer commercials.  I think we can all agree … that’s saying something.

Anyway, I’m out until next Tuesday.  If you’re looking for something to do tomorrow night for a good cause, head over to the Cotton Mill’s Pink Party benefiting the Susan G. Komen Center.  The party runs from 6 to 8 p.m., and you can check it out on Facebook.  Just look for “The Cotton Mill Nashville.”  Have a great week!

Going to the Dogs

It’s official: Our dog is running the house.  I never realized that a 7-pound animal was capable of becoming my boss, but here we are.  Nearly four years to the day after Santa dropped him off on our doorstep, he’s not so large but is very much in charge.  I have no idea when or how this happened, but I realized it for the first time Monday.  At first, I thought I was imagining the whole thing, but I’ve spent the last couple of days studying him.  It’s true.  We now work for him.

Let me start out by giving you a little history.  Last year, we participated in a carpool with another family in the neighborhood, so the dog only got to make the school run twice a week.  This year, when I started driving every day, he got promoted.  It was like it was the greatest thing that ever happened to him.  You would have thought Donald Trump had hired him to run one of his Fortune 500 companies.  He would circle the garage door a hundred times in a row, chasing his tail, waiting for us to leave.  It was so cute/ludicrous that my daughter and I thought about videotaping it for a submission to America’s Funniest Home Videos.  I say “almost” because my husband found out and told me it was the most low-rent idea I’d ever come up with.  Apparently, it shook some sense into me.  It’s not even on NBC for goodness’ sake!

Fast forward to this week, and it’s like I’m living with a whole different dog.  As soon as my daughter exits the car, the dog starts treating me like one of his employees. Unlike most pets who like to sit in your lap lovingly and look out the window, this one insists on riding in my daughter’s booster seat all the way home like it’s some kind of throne.  To make matters worse, he’s now refusing to get out of the car when we get back home.  No joke.

Up until two weeks ago, he would hop into the front seat and jump out behind me every time he heard the garage door closing. It was our little, daily ritual.  On Monday, I turn around … no dog.  I’m thinking, “Oh no.  Did he jump out in the school parking lot?  I KNEW this would happen one day!” As I’m about to break down in tears trying to figure out how I’m going to explain this to our daughter, I happen to glance through the tinted back window.  He’s just sitting there staring at me.  I call him again in that baby talk we reserve only for our pets and children.  Still … I’m greeted with nothing but a blank stare. With the clock ticking and no other options, I opened the door and he hopped right out. Who does this guy think he is? I’m now his limo driver!

I’ll admit … he’s adorable, but it’s not like he’s starring in his own Pedigree commercials or anything.  I don’t see any fat paychecks rolling in as a result of his good looks.  I can’t figure out what’s prompted this radical transformation.  When we got him, he was a glorified shelter dog with a broken tail.  Today … he’s too cool to be bothered with us.  Has he been talking to the cat? They pretend to hate each other when we’re home, but who knows? Maybe she’s been brainwashing him during the day while we’re at work.

I’ve started to notice that his behavior is rubbing off in other areas as well.  For example, he now refuses to go to his bed in our utility room unless I have the appropriate brand of treat on hand, and even then, he’ll only go inside if the washer and dryer are both off.  For a while, he was giving the ice maker hell, but I guess that was becoming too labor-intensive with the cubes dropping every hour.  I cannot tell you what a HUGE departure this all is from the dog we once knew.

The old Prince Charming let our daughter wheel him around in a stroller without making a peep.  We dressed him up as a golf caddy one Halloween, and he was totally fine with it.  He even kept the little clubs strapped onto his back like a good boy. Today, it’s bark, bark, bark.  I want in.  I want out.  I need more water.  I don’t like that bowl.  A couple of weeks ago, we went on an overnight trip and left him at home.  He went on a hunger strike, refusing to eat.

Not only is he a problem child at home, but he’s turned into the neighborhood bully.  A couple down the street has two Doberman pinchers who, I might add, are responsibly kept in their yard by a wireless fence.  The other day, Prince bolted through their yard after them while barking like a German Shepherd.  The Doberman’s owner politely told me that a couple of weeks ago, Prince’s behavior actually scared one of her 100-plus-pound dogs so much that the dog ran up onto her own porch for safety and wet herself.  MY DOG IS 4 INCHES TALL!  Maybe the U.S. military could use him for some kind of operation over in Iraq or Afghanistan.  No doubt he would demand to be named commanding general.

Momzillas

A couple of weeks ago, I was killing time in the sale aisle of Barnes and Noble while my daughter looked for a book.  It’s a process that can take anywhere from a minute to two hours, depending on her mood.  While flipping through the sub-par literature that could no longer command full price, I stumbled across a book I couldn’t resist … partially because it had been marked down to $5, and secondly because of its title: “Momzillas.”

Those of us with children are familiar with the beast, but for you neophytes … I’m going to try to paint a picture of what a Momzilla is.  In an effort to be as thorough as possible, I’ve consulted the online Urban Dictionary, which specializes in offbeat words and phrases that haven’t yet graduated to Webster’s.  Below you will find that definition … with a few of my own catty observations mixed in:

Momzilla- A mother who is so baby/child-focused they are obsessive to a fault.  These are the mothers known to brag incessantly about their offspring, with no subject being too great or too small.  Everything from their child’s ability to swallow solid food to their first step is a source of enormous pride.

Momzillas usually drive some kind of expensive SUV filled to the brim with designer car seats, DVD players, Baby Einstein CDs and just about every other toy/amenity known to child.  It isn’t uncommon for them to carry a full-blown Martha Stewart-like scrapbook around with them everywhere they go in the event they need to showcase the professional glossies taken at Muffy’s $5,000 birthday soirée.  Naturally, it was held at the presidential sweet at Loews Vanderbilt, complete with valet parking.

Last, but not least.  A Momzilla’s mission is never fully accomplished until she has made every other mother within earshot feel inferior to the point of questioning why they ever decided to pro-create in the first place.

Think of it this way: “Mom” + “Godzilla” = Momzilla.

It’s weird because before you birth a child, you’re not even aware these nasty creatures exist, and even if you did, you wouldn’t pay much attention to them.  It’s sort of like a rice cake — who knew they existed until you went on that crash diet?  It’s the same way with Momzillas.  The second you reveal your pregnancy to the world … IT’S ON!  The momzillas come out of the ground like worms after a summer rain.  Had I known what was coming, I would have cinched my waist up in a girdle my first two trimesters just to avoid all the unsolicited advice.

Everybody’s an expert!  Don’t die your hair.  Take your folic acid.  Avoid salt.  Get plenty of rest (as if).  Keep your feet propped up.  Eat small portions … and on, and on, and on.  I’ll never forget my grandmother’s glowing response to the big news:  “Well, honey, just don’t get too fat.  I only gained eight pounds with your father.  Make sure you keep the eating in check.”  Huh?  No congratulations?  No “I love you”?  Just “Don’t blow up like the Goodyear blimp!”  And, for the record, I want to see hospital records proving she only gained eight pounds.  I’m crying foul.  It’s not like he was born four months premature!

I really think the whole mothering thing could be turned into a competitive sport.  The questionnaire for contestants would go something like this:  How long were you in labor?  How many times did you have to push?  What were the baby’s APGAR scores?  Where did you register — Pottery Barn or Land of Nod?

In some ways, it’s like the Twilight Zone.  I thought the lady from La Leche (a mother of eight) was going to jump in our back seat of our car and follow us home to make sure I wasn’t poisoning my daughter with formula.  As far as she was concerned, it was the death knell.  I can’t even imagine what she’d say today if she knew we were feeding her cheese out of a squeeze can on non-organic Ritz crackers.  How pedestrian!

Last week, I heard the ultimate Momzilla story while attending a kid’s clothing party at a friend’s house.  The clothes were adorable!  As I was paying, the lady embarrassingly confessed that in some parts of middle Tennessee, the mothers actually ask her not to host more than one party in the same county.  Huh?  Apparently they don’t want to see some other little grass stain running around town in their kid’s high-dollar “outfit.” Who knew it was like New York Fashion Week in the outlying counties?

Personally, I’ve never had to fight my inner Momzilla.  Maybe I would have been tempted had I not been so acutely aware of my shortcomings from the get-go.  As soon as the line appeared on the pee stick, all I could hear was the voice of that woman from “Gone with the Wind” who kept screaming, “I don’t know nothing about birthing no babies!”  The good news is … you figure it out.

I’ve been fortunate enough to align myself with another group of mothers who prescribe to my same brand of parenting.  If no one’s injured, everything’s fine.  My girlfriend Kelly has three girls.  Last week, as we were sitting around her pool, I confessed that I had let Dalton eat a Swiss Cake roll for breakfast that morning in exchange for 15 extra minutes of sleep.  There was no judgment.  I didn’t get a lecture about how completely idiotic that was.  She just gave me that knowing head nod that said, “Been there and done that.”

Let’s just get it all out there.  I let my kid watch “Spongebob” every morning because I think it’s hysterical that his cat’s name is Gary.  That’s like naming your kid Spot.  I once paid Dalton $10 to smile for a picture because the sun was going down, and we were about to miss the shot.  I’m sure Dr. Phil would railroad me for that on national television, but guess what … I don’t care!  I seriously doubt it’s going to turn her into a serial killer.

I guess the bottom line is this: Enjoy your kids! Do the best you can. Whenever some Momzilla tries to engage you in the future (and they will), tell them your husband is out of work, you buy most of your kid’s clothes at Wal-Mart and your child has no ambition as a student or athlete.  That should shut them up.  

Life happens… “Swift-ly”

As if the fact that it’s been raining for 40 days and 40 nights isn’t depressing enough, we woke up this morning to find two leaks in our kitchen ceiling.  I guess it could be worse.  At least we’re not rowing out the front door like some middle Tennesseans, but come on!  Enough is enough.  My mom swears she saw a water moccasin swim by her van earlier this week.

I might not have gone quite so ballistic over the whole thing had we not just spent $1,200 replacing a leaky window less than two months ago.  We discovered that little gem one day when the moisture finally caused our hardwood floors to start buckling.  I got suspicious when I glanced into the dining room and saw our table essentially levitating on one end.  When I got down on my hands and knees to investigate, I discovered the swollen planks and a pile of water underneath them in the sub-floor.  We thought about calling the builder to complain, but then we remembered … HE NO LONGER EXISTS! The company went bankrupt.  Hmmm … wonder why that happened.  It doesn’t matter who you are or what you do … life happens.

Let’s take Taylor Swift, for example.  My daughter and I went to her concert Saturday night at the Sommet Center, and I have to say, it was one of the best live performances I’ve ever been to.  Prior to the show, I couldn’t have named three Taylor Swift songs.  Afterward, I had this burning desire to call up all my ex-boyfriends and give them a piece of my mind.  Of course, it later dawned on me that most of them were so relieved to get rid of me they’d probably screen my calls.  Well, you know what?  I don’t write songs, but I do a little thing called a nightly television show.  Maybe I should just let loose on all of them one night … on-air … Taylor Swift-,style!  I’m just kidding.  My boss sometimes reads these things.  I don’t want to send him into cardiac arrest.

The concert WAS all about girl power though.  Imagine being 19 years old, standing on stage in your hometown in front of tens of thousands of adoring fans.  Does it get any better?  Just when you think all the stars have aligned for you … life happens.  Less than 24 hours after her big moment here in Nashville, that same teenage vixen could be seen getting her eye blacked (metaphorically speaking) on national television by that overgrown bully Kanye West.

Now, I’ve mentioned this before, so it should come as no surprise that I am a closet gangsta rap fan.  Tupac, “Big Poppa,” Snoop Dog … I have a few songs from each of them on my iPod.  Should I be concerned that two of the three are dead? Anyway, back to Kanye West. Who is this loser?  The only reason I even know his name is because of that other tantrum he threw on live television several years back when Gretchen Wilson beat him for Best New Artist.

We had a poll on WSMV.com asking if he should be banned from future awards show.  I say forget that.  Can’t one of this guy’s handlers cram a pacifier in his mouth, swaddle him in a blankie and sing him a lullaby during the next show?  What a baby!  Rocker Katy Perry summed it up best when she said, “It was like watching someone stomp on a kitten.”  You know it’s bad when the leader of the free world inadvertently calls you a jacka** before a network interview.  Ouch! That had to hurt.

On the bright side, when life takes us down, there’s usually a moment when we dust ourselves off and get back up.  Who knows?  Maybe the guy repairing my roof needed this job to pay this month’s house note.  I’m sure Taylor Swift’s feelings were hurt initially, but in the end, it’s only made her more popular and exposed her to a group of people who might not have otherwise even known her name.  Life’s not about how many times we get knocked down.  It’s about how many times we’re willing to get back up.

Cinderella gets a new wardrobe

Have you ever had one of those “Cinderella” moments in your life where someone unexpectedly drops an amazing outfit in your lap that you did nothing to deserve?  Me neither.  It’s frustrating, is it not?  I mean, you read the fairy tale a hundred times, thinking maybe just ONCE it could come true, but alas … it never does.  As far back as I can remember, I’ve been wearing three kinds of clothing: homemade, gently worn or something off the sale rack.  Unfortunately, it started the instant I popped out of my mother’s womb.

From birth through about the age of 8, my maternal grandmother made every dress I ever wore.  I specifically used the word “dress” because apparently that’s all she knew how to make.  I was sort of like the postman: 12 months a year, come snow, sleet or hail … I could be found wearing a dress with so much lace and acrynalyn it looked like a gigantic tutu made for an oversize ballerina.  Fortunately, she made matching bloomers for every dress so I didn’t flash my fellow classmates every day while climbing the monkey bars.

By third grade, I was fully fed up with the whole thing, not to mention the fact that I was starting to get heckled by schoolyard bullies.  After Christmas break, I decided to boycott frilly-land in favor of a pair of store-bought jeans someone had given me as a gift.  Clearly, this was one present that had slipped through the cracks.  I can assure you that anything denim would not have been sanctioned by the grand council (aka: my mother and grandmother).  After pairing them up with the same shirt for something like three weeks in a row, my mom finally relented.  As a general rule, once your kid gets too strong to physically force them into an outfit, it’s time to find a new battle plan.

It was during this rebirth, of sorts, that my mother and I discovered the wonders of outlet shopping.  Back then, there was only one in middle Tennessee, and it was in Murfreesboro.  I’ll never forget one of our biggest fights surrounded whether I should get a pair of designer jeans.  There’s no other way to put this … I was OBSESSED with them.  Take a trip back in time with me, if you will.  It was the early ’80s.  The whole world had a pair, and the fact that my parents stubbornly refused to shell out a hundred bucks for them made the whole idea that much more illustrious.  At the time, the fact that I was being denied such an obvious staple seemed like it almost warranted a call to Child Services.  Gloria Vanderbilt, Jordache, Calvin Klein, Guess … everyone was donning some kind of personalized stitching on their back pocket … except ME!  It didn’t take long to figure out that the leather Lee patch I was sporting on my caboose wasn’t cutting it fashion wise.

One day as the argument stretched into its third month, my mom and I were wandering the aisles of the now-defunct Hills Department store.  For those of you who don’t remember, this is the store where designers used to dump off all of their leftovers pre-Stein Mart and T.J. Maxx.  While milling the aisles, I found what can only be described as one of the most hideous skirts ever stitched together. It was bright orange denim with two beautiful words inscribed on the back pocket … Gloria Vanderbilt.  At the low, low price of $14, the skirt was mine.  I looked like a TDOT worker from the waist down, but that wasn’t the point.  I couldn’t help but somehow feel like I’d just been inducted into some exclusive club.

Over the years, I’ve definitely had my share of fashion hits and misses — Think stirrup pants, shoulder pads the size of your head, acid-wash jeans and sweater vests.  Though I’m sure they must have all been in style at some point, these are a few of the more heinous articles of clothing that come to mind.  I once had a yellow-and-white striped jersey top with a pair of matching stretch pants.  If I look hard enough, I can probably find a picture of this outfit, so don’t press me.

When I came back to Channel 4 two summers ago, I knew I had my work cut out for me cobbling together something that was remotely acceptable for the role of evening news anchor.  I had just spent five years as a government employee and mom.  My closet was bursting at the seams with upscale T-shirts, dress pants, shorts and just enough out-of-date suits that no one at the TBI seemed to notice I was rotating them every two to three weeks.  Let’s face it: In the real world, nobody particularly cares if you wear the same blue shirt every other week, especially if you’re creative enough to camouflage it with enough different accessories that no one picks up on it.

In TV Land … it’s a whole different story.  I learned this week one after coming back to Channel 4, when I rolled out one of my brand-new silver necklaces, which I considered cutting edge.  Before the credits had even rolled, I had received a scathing voice mail saying my necklace looked like a biker chain I had picked up at the local hardware store.  Clearly, it was a wake-up call.  I felt like I needed to gut my entire closet, set fire to it and start over.  The trouble is … I needed cute stuff that was cheap — which, of course, was to be found in my spare time when I wasn’t working a full-time job and raising a child.

Since the crew of “What Not To Wear” probably wasn’t going to pop up on my doorstep, my stylist (mother) and I began a quest that led us everywhere from Ross to Target to yes … (gasp!) even a couple of garage sales.  In the end, I bought a pencil skirt and a pair of pants in every color, added a couple of expensive new suits and dresses to the mix, and bought as many cute tops as I could find.  That’s it!  My secret is out.  THAT is what I’ve been wearing for more than two years now.  I’ll admit, it was nothing special, but it was functional and the only way I could survive without spending my entire paycheck on clothes.

Somehow, I had gotten used to eating white rice every day.  I put the stuff on like a uniform and didn’t think much about it … until three weeks ago.  I got a call at work from someone representing an upscale store in Green Hills called the Cotton Mill.  The girl asked me if I’d be interested in letting them dress me for the news.  After I finished stabbing myself in the hand with a fork to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, I said, “Is this a prank call?” (Just kidding … but I thought it!)  I meekly presented the idea to my boss, fearing he would say no and usher me out the door.  Much to my surprise, a deal was struck.

Last Tuesday, I went over to the store for my first fitting.  Let’s just say I felt like Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman,” with the exception that it’s the CLOTHES that are for sale instead of moi.  After 30-some-odd decades, it finally happened.  I’m Cinderella!

About three days into my new wardrobe, my daughter commented on how beautiful I looked and innocently asked me why I’d been wearing the same thing over and over again all these years. “Don’t you like to shop, Mommy?”  I clinched my fists and wanted to say in the most sugary sweet voice I could muster, “Yes, honey, I do plenty of shopping. It’s just that … I SPEND ALL MY MONEY ON YOU!!!!”  Ah, to be 7 again.  I didn’t want to burst her bubble, so I just told her Mommy had stumbled upon some good fortune.  She still thinks the Beast will someday turn into a prince, too, and after my recent experience, who knows?  Maybe he just will.

Thanks, Cotton Mill!